Night People
by Father Vengeance
Summary: A series of evening adventures between Rick and Kate that slowly, inexorably gives way to light. Re-posting for the benefit of those who didn't get to secure a copy prior to what will be hereafter referred to as: The Great Lamented Banishment. For me too though, as there is simply more of the tale to be told.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Ugh. Re-posting makes me cringe. I dunno why; it just feels dirty. But you guys asked, and maybe there're others who agree. After the fun I had sharing this during its initial run, it'd be hypocritical to deny it's place here now. There will be differences as we go in the form of edits, the exclusions of some previous chapters and the inclusion of new ones. Lemme know if I bypass something you really want. Updates should be fairly regular, thankfully, as for the moment I'm posting on a schedule of editing more than writing. As always, no beta, so indulge at the risk of offense to any and all grammatical sensibilities. Time-line starts at 3x19 as canon and goes slowly haywire onward. Thank you to Grimoire of Thorns for sending me a full copy of this once lost story. You're the man John. Or you will be when you finish Promises In C-minor.  
**

* * *

The one-way length of Mercer is night-time black, but dense traffic and streetlamps paint its lines with blotches of colored light. An intimidating line of cars stretches out before them, bullying all seekers of a coveted parking space to dissuade fantasies of satisfaction. Beckett points—nay—jabs aggressively towards an open spot ahead and taps Castle's left shoulder with a brief, one-handed drum-solo, as though he weren't already looking the same as she. "What about that one?"

"It's a hydrant," he predicts. "I told you: this time of night we would have been better off taking a cab."

"And I told you," she returns crisply, "that I don't need anyone ferrying me about."

"That's true," he says, not adding the amused and unspoken: _you told me that bald falsehood_.

The detective diverts her attention from the road in order to squint at him within the gloom of the sedan. "Your popcorn just went from large to medium."

"What?" he squeaks, affronted by the injustice. "I'm trying to be on your side."

Beckett faces front again, but sniffs audibly. "I smell burning denim."

He grins—can't help it. "I," he states with a hand to his chest, "am not a liar, detective. I'm a writer. I describe, obfuscate, and convey through extraordinary measures of subtext. I do not lie."

The detective rolls her eyes, and he's delighted. They become even with the empty spot when traffic moves sluggishly forward. As predicted, the space between two cars along the roadside reveals a fire hydrant sitting in mute denial of their efforts. The writer doesn't gloat; in fact he keeps his gaze carefully locked in the neutral zone straight ahead of them both.

He's peripherally aware of her glaring at him.

"There's a parking garage ahead a ways," he suggests. "Let's just pull in there."

"We'll pay more for that than we will for the tickets and snacks combined," she replies. "And since we're on my dime tonight you'll just have to find your misbegotten patience, Castle."

Misbegotten. Is that gem of vocab some kind of bribe? He approves. "We're partners," Castle states, cunningly easing into the suspected debate. "How about we exercise a little solidarity this evening? I'll take care of the parking and you can take care of the theatre."

"Nope."

"Hrm," he considers wordlessly. The woman is smart even when only paying him half attention, and isn't going to fall for attempts at pulling her emotional strings. "We have fifteen minutes before Forbidden Planet starts," he offers, opting for reason instead.

"Fifteen minutes," Kate repeats absently, "of tending to your waning attention span. My first miracle on the road to sainthood: that's how I'll force myself to think of it."

"Saint Beckett," he returns, amused, but unwilling to concede, "patron of stubborn women."

"_Willful_," she corrects, and the corners of her mouth twitch in the suggestion of a smirk.

Castle snorts.

"Careful," she advises as they progress to the head of the line at the traffic light. "I don't want you making a mess of my car when you get hit by divine judgment for mocking a saint."

"You'd never get rid of me," Richard declares passionately, jerking a thumb towards his chest. "I'd stain like no other mess could hope to."

"We're agreed," she says, and leans forward, looking up through the windshield nervously. "No falling safe, no descending sword of Damocles—how anticlimactic."

"There's the garage!" he observes excitedly, pointing.

"I'm fine with it if you want to wave as we go by."

"Beckett," he says, putting as much nine-year-old whine into the name as he can muster.

She cringes some and then shakes herself like a cat unexpectedly finding itself doused with water. "Medium drink you say? My wallet thanks you."

"Kate," he murmurs with a simpler smile. The driver seems to stiffen in her seat to be addressed thus. She turns to look at him with barely discernible anxiety in the angles of her eyebrows and pursed lips. "I want to," he assures warmly. It's so rare they're together without a case involved. He wants it to be special.

Where cunning and irritation fail, genuine affection succeeds. His partner huffs disgruntledly. She obliges, taking a right turn into the garage. Forty-four of his dollars later they're tucked away on the second level of the structure and unloading from the sedan. It's right across the street from the Angelika. The writer instinctively offers his arm and she surprises him by threading hers through it without missing a beat. With her footwear and confident posture their height is nearly level. Determined strikes of her heels upon the cement floor echo through the structure as they exit onto the street.

Early spring is gusting upon the city, surging like a river through the man-made channels between rows of towering buildings. It whisks away the exhaust from so many cars even while chilling those in its wake. His partner's long hair stirs as the wind cards through it, tickling lightly at Castle's cheek and neck. Along with the silken texture is the tantalizing scent of her conditioner—faint traces of vanilla and coconut.

Beckett sizes him up as they cross the busy one-way and arches a slim eyebrow. The writer hasn't offered a scant stray comment in minutes. "Are you still with me over there?"

The first words on his mind are swallowed thickly: _I wouldn't be anywhere else._ Instead his reply is a succinct and croaked, "Yep."

She doesn't seem to get it though, and works her mouth into a considering line of confusion and then casual dismissal at his uncharacteristic silence. He isn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed; both assail him as he opens the door. Beckett sweeps inside, leading the way through a milling crowd of fellow movie-goers. Likewise, the writer observes, she seems unaware of the way heads turn in her wake as several male members of the crowd perform a hasty double-take.

Beckett is straight from a long day at work, armed with nothing more than a hasty shower, a button-down white cotton shirt, and a pin-striped dark grey blazer to match the suit pants sheltering her long-stemmed lower half. Yet she cuts a proverbial swath through a room of women more carefully groomed and in elegant fare.

The detective pauses before one such woman and gasps quietly, gesturing to her and saying, "Oh my gosh! Not two days ago I was running through Saks and that little beauty was calling my name." She flashes a purely dazzling smile. "I'm glad it found a good home."

The woman is surprised. She beams and laughs shyly, prettily. Nervous hands smooth the deep red satin dress against her hips while a blush arises in her cheeks. "Am I crazy to think I'm doing it justice?"

"Not at all!" Kate assures, and just like that the pair got caught up in a discussion.

Her date, a balding, fair-featured, middle-aged man looks to Richard and arches his eyebrows.

"I can't take her anywhere," the writer claims, and grins, offering his hand. The blushing woman's date seems just as surprised to suddenly have more personal company within the crowded room. He offers a confused, but welcoming grin and a firm handshake.

The pair eventually made it to the ticket counter with two minutes to spare. Sarah and James part their company with exchanges of 'good evening' and 'have fun'. Castle eyes the somewhat daunting prices of the snack bar warily. He orders a small tub of popcorn and water.

"I was just kidding," Kate assures with thinly veiled amusement. "You can get whatever, Castle."

"I'm good," he replies with his best attempt at nonchalance.

Beckett slaps a forestalling hand on the counter and their teenaged cashier pauses with his eyebrows arched questioningly. "Make it a large popcorn," the detective corrects while staring challengingly at the writer, "and a large orange soda. Ooh, and that monstrous bag of gummy bears too, please." Despite her previous claims the final bill overshadows the cost of the parking garage fee.

That's as far as she goes with responding to his attempt at going easy on her wallet. It isn't necessary to hammer the indignity home any further. The point is made, and the author is appropriately embarrassed even as the twinge of impropriety also lingers. It goes against his grain to let a woman pay. Blame the diva who is quite likely raiding his wine cupboard at that very moment.

Beckett prefers to sit close to the screen. She enjoys being right there where everything is happening. By contrast, Rick usually sits in the back where he can observe both the movie and the silhouettes of the crowd.

His partner observes, "Nothing is easy with you, is it?"

"No, hey, let's sit up front. Wherever you're comfortable is fine with me."

She pauses in the aisle to the side of the seating and fixes him with a lingering gaze. In the dimness, and with her back to the screen, it's impossible to gauge her expression. People are waiting behind them, but Kate refuses to be rushed and no one is daring enough to voice their impatience. At length, and without further remark the woman eases into a middle section that resembles both their preferences while directly pleasing neither.

Rick sighs mutely before following. Usually he's much more adept at this kind of thing. It isn't a date, no, but it is an outing with a woman, and he's familiar enough with such expeditions to be comfortably self-assured. Not so in this case. Per usual, Beckett takes everything familiar and somehow turns it neatly on its head.

He's treating it like a date—that's the problem. Castle knows, and he understands that Beckett senses an altered dynamic from what began so casually at her insistence back at the precinct. While approving of his company, she doesn't comprehend the nature of the weight he naturally attributes to the outing. She senses the awkwardness, however, and clearly does not condone its presence.

Theirs is such a subtle and complicated dance. Most of the time the moves come instinctively, and it works. Other times, as now, Richard is too eager for the next step and treads upon the detective's toes.

"Do you know the origins of the gummy bear?" he asks playfully.

"You mean the _gummibärchen_?" she returns, smiling more easily.

"Oh," he breathes, wiggling his eyebrows a couple times. "Say it again."

Beckett's eyebrows lower and her lips ease into a smirk. She leans closer and whispers, "_Gummibärchen_."

"_Gute himmel_," he replies with a hand to his chest.

"Good skies?"

"Good heavens."

"Bad translation."

"Bad manners for pointing out my shortcomings."

"Nice comeback."

"Nice of you to say."

Someone behind them hisses, "Shhh."

"It's not even the previews," Beckett points out, turning to stare down their shusher. "Save it for when it counts, buster."

Rick bites his lower lip to keep from laughing and locked his eyes in their forward-facing position.

The interrupter coughs and mutters, "I guess you're right."

Beckett turns back around with a shake of her head that stirs her hair into an alluring sway. The flat white light from the screen ahead infuses the brunette with glints of silver. The lights overhead are dim, but strong enough to lend a honey-shaded glow to the mix.

"It's not dark enough yet to get away with leering," she assures upon catching him looking.

"Let me know when it is," Rick replies, thrilled they're comfortable again so quickly after his misstep.

"Are you going to open those gummy bears or what?"

He does so and the wrapper crinkles noisily as she pulls out a few tasty morsels.

"Man," the guy behind them grumbles, seeming addressing his date, "this is going to be a _great_ movie. I just can't wait." The sarcasm is biting, and this time Rick turns along with Beckett to view their accosting audience member. He's a big guy with square-jawed, oddly lumpy-looking features in the gloom.

A thin, younger woman seated next to him looks thoroughly embarrassed. She squeaks out a, "Sorry."

"Don't apologize to them," the man growls.

"I'm sorry for you," Beckett offers, clasping the young woman's hand briefly in hers. "My recommendation? Throw him back. It's a big sea out there."

The large man arches his eyebrows and leans forward towards Rick. "You wanna control your lady there, friend?"

The writer doesn't even think about it first. "You have no idea."

Kate's eyebrows soar as she faces him, her lips forming a surprised 'o'.

_Whoops_. Alarmed, he scrambles for purchase. "Ah, well, what I meant was—

The detective stands, performs a brief dance of indecision, and then maneuvers her way down the opposite end of the aisle. She heads down front more, leaving Rick scrambling with his burden of treats as he rises and hedges his way after her.

"So long," the shadowy guy mutters in their wake.

Beckett is facing resolutely forward as Castle excuses his way into the middle section of the third row to claim an empty seat beside of her. She chose a spot with a free chair. He hopes that's an unspoken invitation.

They pass an uncomfortable silence before she reaches over and snatches away the gummy bears. "Well, that was perfectly mortifying," she observes. "Let's not do it again, okay?"

"Okay."

"It's _our_ thing," she stresses.

"Okay."

"The last thing I need is for someone to recognize you and claim they heard you…I don't know, trying to woo me or some damned thing."

"Okay."

"And _stop_ agreeing with everything I say," she adds heatedly.

"O—uh…alright?"

Beckett expels a single note of a laugh and shakes her head, sighs. "Nothing is easy," she reiterates.


	2. Chapter 2

"Whoo!" Esposito crows, rising from the couch and slapping his hands together. "Did you _see_ that? Swisher just took their second baseman _out_. Oh damn. Send that boy back to Minnesota," he urges the television, "but get the number off of that bus first. I'll track it down for ya!" The detective whips his cell out of the front pocket of his jeans and started texting madly.

At the opposite end of the couch Lanie rolls her eyes with a long-suffering sigh and flips the page of her medical periodical. Her boyfriend and Kevin might as well have watched the game together for all the minutes they're eating up going back and forth like that.

When her phone blares out the chorus of J. Reyez's 'She Crazy' the medical examiner groans with relief and snatches it up. "Kate," she breathes into the receiver, "thank God, girl. Save me."

Esposito arches an eyebrow without looking away from his task. "I feel that love, _chica_," he assures with light sarcasm. "Fallin' on me like a cool, spring shower. It's shameful. Stop smothering."

Her lips purse in an unspoken reply unrelated to any form of apology, but she trails her fingertips lightly into the hills and valleys of his right arm as she drifts past and out of the living room. His dark eyes followed her all the way into the kitchen. Smiling, the M.E. says into the cell, "What's up, honey? How'd the date go?"

"It—it's _not_ a date," comes the half-heated, half-exasperated reply.

"Not well, hmm?"

The woman's disbelieving tone confirms the suspicion when she replies, "Oh my God, Lanie."

Curiosity piqued, the other encourages, "Well, gimme twenty c-c's of explanation. You went to the movies, didn't you?" She isn't sure how even Castle could muck up something so simple. "Wait, you said 'it's not' as in present tense." Lanie sits in one of the chairs at the table and hisses, "Are you still with him? It's after midnight!"

"What's going on in there?" Javier calls nosily.

"I'm diggin' your early grave," she fires back, "in case you make the last mistake of your life by eavesdropping on my conversation. This is girl-talk, buster. Watch your game."

"You're such a softy," Kate claims, amused despite whatever difficulties she's facing.

"Don't change the subject," Lanie replies more quietly. "Where are you?"

"We're at a tavern in SoHo. Castle's ordering us coffee. I've, uh, escaped into the bathroom for a moment. I didn't have the heart to just let him wander home."

"Okay, you're getting me worked up now. You spill those beans, missy."

"Well, everything was fine for a while. Then about three-quarters of the way through the movie I caught him mouthing along with the dialogue on screen."

Frowning, Lanie asks, "And you have a personal grudge against pantomiming?"

"He told me he'd never seen the movie before," Kate growls in outraged reply. "I wouldn't have dragged him along in the first place if he hadn't tricked me!"

"Oh yes," Lanie smiles as she lathers on the sarcasm, "I'm sure you did plenty of dragging with that one."

"You _know_ what I mean."

"So he'd already seen it? Who cares? He just wanted to spend some time with you without a corpse or suspect sharing the same room. Is that so awful?"

"T-the point is," Kate clarifies agitatedly, "he lied. Well, no actually, he didn't even have the decency to lie. He _insinuated_ and let me assume that he hadn't seen it."

"He didn't have the decency to lie to you," the M.E. repeats. "Are you listening to yourself right now?"

"Lanie," the detective returns beseechingly, drawing out her name in protest.

"Don't 'Lanie' me," the medical examiner denies. She punctuates her neutral position with a moment's silence, letting it simmer until the stance is clear. "So you catch him mouthing along with the movie. Then what?"

"I—well, he kind of noticed me noticing."

"Lordy," the dark-skinned woman muses aloud, resting the palm of one hand against her cheek, "I can just picture the death-glare you must have shot him."

"That may or may not be entirely true, but if it were he would have had it coming. In any case, his eyes got real big and he dropped our drink on the floor. Orange soda went _everywhere_."

Lanie snorts and pressed her lips firmly together. She doesn't bother commenting on the notion of them sharing a drink. _Maybe later._

"It was such a mess. Half the row of people in front of us scattered like frightened pigeons."

Her shoulders quiver lightly and one hand seals over her mouth so as to not interrupt by giggling.

"So after Rick apologizes to everyone at least a dozen times he wants to get us another soda. I tell him no, _twice_, but of course he wants to anyway. That's when he realizes he's lost his wallet."

"Oh no."

"We had to switch seats earlier because this jerk was sitting behind us. So Rick goes back to our previous seats to look for his wallet. But it's dark, of course. So he turns his phone back on to use this fancy flashlight app he downloaded. Well he found his wallet. That's when his daughter called."

"No."

"Yes, Lanie. I'm down in front and I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear that ring tone go off. 'Dad, dad, dad,'" Kate mimics, squawking the words. "It was like a bomb went off. Every head in the house turns to fix on him. Rick is so startled he drops the damn thing. Well the floor is on a slant, so it just _slides_ down the length of the entire theatre, Lanie, blaring out that 'Dad, dad, dad!' as it went."

Tears of mirth swell in the medical examiner's eyes. She slaps the table, and can't hold back the laughter anymore. Thankfully, she hears Kate give a brief, muffled giggle on the other end of the line.

"It was horrifying," the detective accuses, amused even as she tries to expound the seriousness of the crime of etiquette. "This old man down front picks up his phone, silences it, and god, Castle walks up to him looking like a beaten mule. The guy stares at my partner like he's not merely a man but the personification of a natural disaster."

Lanie howls, shaking her head as she imagined the scene.

"Goodness," Kate breathes, "we left in shame. Rick's ego was in shambles. I wish that were the end of it."

"Oh no," Lanie groans, grinning though. "What else could happen to the poor man?"

"He was inconsolable, Lanie. As angry as I was even I couldn't bring myself to give him the lashing he deserved for tricking me. So he goes up to the counter and tells the cashier he wants gift cards for a free movie."

"I'm surprised he'd want to go back. Ever."

"They weren't for him," Kate clarified, her amusement fading slowly. "He told me to go, but since I gave him a ride I decided to wait. We sat in the lobby for the last half-hour of the movie." Kate pauses, sighing, and continues, "When the show gets out Rick takes this popcorn tub full of gift cards and stands at the door where everyone comes out. He gave every audience member one and apologized. I never want to hear the words 'I'm so sorry' again. I've heard it enough tonight to last me a lifetime."

Lanie is silent in reply at first. She sighs too. Sometimes that writer knocks her feet out from under her with the way he can do things so very right. It's over the top in the writer's typical fashion, but very sweet. At length the M.E. murmurs, "That must have cost him a small fortune, and no small amount of pride to stand there and make the apologies for himself."

"I saw the bill," the detective replies softly. "We could've taken the amount elsewhere and driven home in it. Maybe not in style, but even so…"

"So, you're taking him out for coffee to lift his spirits?"

"Not exactly. It took a while for him to do what he did. By the time we got back to the parking garage, which he demanded we use earlier tonight, it was locked up tight with my sedan still inside. We're ordering coffee while we wait for the car service he called to show up."

Lanie barely caught the end before she found herself laughing again.

* * *

When Kate ventures out of the ladies' room she finds her partner standing at the bar amidst a crowd of people. The others are engaging one another, talking animatedly, laughing. For the partying crowd the night is still young, but the writer looks to be lost in his own private world. Both of his large hands push back into his hair as she watches. The man's broad shoulders and chest expand and then slump in a miserable sigh.

He's had quite a night. She never would've imagined a man could become so flustered, and can't help wondering now as to why he's been acting so oddly throughout the evening. Those blue eyes somehow deduced her return and he focuses in her direction. A wan smile captured the curves of his mouth. Rick meets her halfway, handing over a steaming to-go cup of decaf. The temperature had cooled significantly by the time they walked to the tavern from the Angelika, only a few blocks—it was the one of the longest and quietest experiences she's yet shared with him. They're both grateful for the warmth of the brew.

"Lanie says the Yankees are winning."

It doesn't help much, eliciting little more than a twitch at the corner of his lips. "A silver lining emerges." He sips from his cup and informs, "Our ride will be here in five. Listen, Beckett, I just want you to know that I'm—

The detective lifts forestalling hand. "Castle, if you apologize again I'm going to throttle you."

Rick sighs, frowning, and unknowingly mussed his hair further with another rake of one hand through its meager length. "You're right. Sorry."

Her eyebrows arch even as his eyes widen. The look on the novelist's face warns of an incoming assault of explanation that will likely go beyond that slip of the tongue. "Don't," she states, jabbing his chest lightly. "Apology accepted. Again." The detective reaches up to comb her fingers lightly into his hair, smoothing out the mess he's made. "So we're good. Just leave it at that, okay?"

The writer's eyes half close under her ministering. He blinks lethargically and belatedly murmurs, "Okay."

Hmph. Even his ready agreement is vexing. The man has sapped her patience tonight, which is fine, normal even. But being confined to a noisy tavern is too much. "Do you mind if we wait outside?"

"Please," her partner agrees, and leads the way to the exit. He follows her out after holding the door and uses his free hand to draw his coat closer about him.

In the city that never sleeps traffic remains present, if less plentiful, as are knots of pedestrians. The crowds defy concepts of age-group or ethnicity. Exterior speakers are pumping music onto the street corner, almost lost amidst the sounds of the city, but dimly audible. Trent Reznor voices existential rhetoric in 'Right Where It Belongs', but does so hauntingly.

Contrary to the music and her partner's subdued demeanor, an irrepressible smile awakens Beckett's lips. The fingers of one hand rose to cover her mouth as she releases a single note of laughter. Talking about the debacle with her best friend really has put it all into perspective.

Rick eyes her, squinting. "It's not funny."

If he could not have said it so sternly maybe she wouldn't find the giggles so difficult to deny. Beckett leans against the pole of the streetlight shining down on them, quivering with hushed amusement.

"Come on," he demands. "Where is your game face? The one time I could use it."

Her mirth eases enough to allow the quirk of an eyebrow. "Next time maybe you should just ask if you can come along instead of manipulating me into doing it for you, Castle."

His reply manages to wipe away her smile while bringing his sly one into residence. "So, you're already thinking about next time, hmm?"

Kate rolls her eyes and turns away in disinterest, staring at anything else instead. She walked right into that one. What she'd been expecting was some outcry over her suggesting that fate was punishing him for fibbing via a series of unfortunate events—he knows she doesn't buy into that malarkey. Still, now that he's lodged the idea in her mind like a thorn, there's a pool hall the detective imagines he'd get a kick out of. It reminds her of the Old Haunt in a way, a place rich in history. Her father used to be a regular there, before it had become a favored drinking spot, back when it was simply a place to occasionally unwind with the boys after work. If tonight is any indication though, he might be better served by staying home. It would be immeasurably less expensive.

"I'm still trying to reconcile Richard Castle the ladies' man with Richard Castle the klutz. How did you get to the point of being married—twice?"

"I'll have you know I can be very dashing."

"Dashing, crashing, smashing," she rolls her wrist while rattling off the verbs, "none of this is news to me after tonight."

"Your logic," he simpers, "has no place in my world."

"Is there gravity in your world? Because you should really imagine some if there isn't. It might help you save money when you wander back to reality."

"Those poor people," the author says by way of agreement. "One of the worst things you can take from another person is their time. We never get any more of that than what we're initially allotted. Some of those people probably don't get to do things like that very often. I hate that I ruined the movie for them."

"Oh relax. They're probably laughing about it even now."

"Like a certain callous detective I know."

"You should be thanking your lucky stars to know her."

"When you say lucky—

"Castle," Beckett interrupts warningly, "life is short enough already. Don't exacerbate."

The writer looks at her with his eyebrows furrowed and his lips quivering.

_Yep. Sounds like masturbate. _Gritting her teeth briefly, she clarifies, "I said _exacerbate_."

"And I'm pleased you're taking responsibility for it."

"Ugh. Where is that car?"

"You know what makes the time pass more quickly?"

"Show me that miracles do exist—tell me the answer is silence."

"It can be done in silence," her partner hedges, "but I was thinking of dancing." When she flashes him a confused look in reply Richard lifts a hand in a vague gesture above them. The music from the tavern has just begun playing John Mayer's 'Slow Dancing in a Burning Room'.

"You're kidding me."

"Is that a no?"

The simple seriousness of the offer elicits a slow frown. In a moment of daring she meets his gaze and holds it, peeling back the veils of hesitation to view him candidly. No. He isn't joking. "Castle…"

"No is just one of two possible answers, Beckett. It is not the end of days."

"No," she answers, all humor subdued.

He offers a closed-lipped smile and turns slightly to let his gaze take in the city streets beyond them. She might as well have told him the time for all the impact he revealed. So why does Beckett feel as though she's just stolen his ice cream cone and pushed him into the dirt? It's an uncomfortable sensation, confusing, and the detective doesn't like it one bit. "Come here," she growls, moving into an open section of the sidewalk. "Before I change my mind," she adds when he hesitates. Even then he advances warily. Beckett grips his coat and sighs impatiently, hauling into her personal space.

Richard's eyes switch between both of hers quickly. He breathes out a quiet chuckle and shakes his head. "Look it was just a joke, okay? You're kind of creeping me out."

"Just put your hands on me," she mutters, and added quickly, "where they belong, I mean." At length he does and she in turn puts hers around his neck. "Now shut up and dance."

Rick chuckles again briefly, but complies.

Kate keeps her gaze focused resolutely on the second button of his shirt at first. When he doesn't try to cajole her attention after a quiet minute of easy movement the investigator finds herself willing to offer it, curious. Amusingly, she discovers him focusing on the top button of her shirt as well. Any lower and she'd have his ear in her hand.

He isn't smiling, but the set of his features is easy, relaxed. The masculine aroma of his shaving foam becomes perceptible to her senses, along with the texture of his cologne, and beneath that the man himself. A stirring begins within her, turbulence she had considered herself over and done with. She's acutely aware of his arms and the way his large hands fit upon her hips.

"This wasn't your worst idea ever," Beckett ventures.

His lips curve slightly, but his attention remains fixed.

"Hello?"

"I'm here."

"Yeah, and staring at my boobs."

"Buttons," he succinctly assures her.

"Is that what you call them? I'd expect a better alliteration from a best-seller." He grins and it' beautifully free of sarcasm or suggestiveness, but he still won't look at her. At length she teases, "Seriously?"

"Just let me dance my way," he growls, more playful than serious, and jostles her lightly, their foreheads grazing one another's. She breathes a note of amusement, but obliges. When the song is over he eases apart from her of his own volition.

"That did not make time go by fast," she observes, grateful for the space to catch her breath.

"I'm conceding you that point, but I'm not complaining. You're very graceful, detective."

"I am, aren't I?"

He laughs.

"And modest too. Sainthood, here I come."

Again the evidence of his humor rolled free, overshadowing the music, and not at all an unpleasing melody in its own right. "Oh," he says and gestures behind her. "Look at that." A black town car is visible at the red light across the street, waiting for green to complete its arrival. "Our chariot approaches."

Home sounds heavenly, bed even better. So why is she feeling a mild pang of regret that the evening is coming to a close? Her partner gestures for the driver to relax and opens the door for her. "After you."

"Next time," she tells him, resting a hand on the top edge of the door, "we leave the logistics to me."

"But Kate," he protests with a familiar whine. "Look at what we would have missed!"

"I mean it," she fires back, but he closes the door pointedly in her face. Hmph. That's fine. They have miles to go and she has plenty of ground rules in mind for him to become aware of. _If there is a next time_, she reminds herself sternly. She'll remind him too.

* * *

**A/N: So concludes the first batch. I'll be posting the previous chapters in chunks like this according to their relationship to one another as a single adventure within the larger context of the story itself. Seems simpler that way, and honestly, who likes waiting?**


	3. Chapter 3

Beckett and Castle emerge from the week with the majority of her active cases closed. It isn't a relief to have lightened her workload. Putting a victim's family at some measure of ease with answers, however, is what it's all about. Consequently, the investigator is in high spirits Friday night. Since his mother and daughter are otherwise occupied for the evening, and Josh is on shift, Kate invites her mystery-writer companion to Nine Down, a local billiards hall she thinks he might enjoy.

"What's the first rule?" she queries as the elevator descends towards the twelfth's lobby.

Castle is staring up at the digital orange numbers counting down on the panel above them. At her question his eyes roll left to view her askance. "What?"

Beckett crosses her arms, saying nothing audibly, but communicating with her body-language.

Rick's hands rise to feign covering his ears. "Whoa, okay," he entreats mockingly. When she doesn't crack a smirk her partner asks, "You mean you actually want me to repeat the words?" By his tone he seems to think she's joking.

She waits.

The writer's arms lower to his sides as he shakes his head. "Detective, this is childish."

And waits.

Somewhat indignantly he informs her, "You can't set rules on how I behave when we're away from the precinct. Why, it's against the very laws you claim to defend. That's something we novelists like to call hypocrisy."

…and waits.

"You know what? Don't blame me if your face gets stuck like that. Just imagine the pictures waiting down the road for you: 'There's angry-faced Beckett' your friends will inform admirers of the portraits on their walls. 'Believe it or not, that's a picture of her being happy.' But no one will buy that—why would they with a scowl like that?"

Amusement dashes through her. The things her partner comes up with sometimes… When she's certain her voice won't betray her, Beckett replies airily, "Patterson has a new book out, doesn't he? Maybe this time would be better spent catching up on my reading."

"Fine," Richard shoots back, "I'll do it. But only so can you hear for yourself how ridiculous it all sounds. Listen very carefully to the fruits of your paranoia, Beckett, and own it." He leans in slightly, lowering his voice as he repeats, "Own it." When he rights his posture the writer pauses, gauging her reaction, but she's resolute.

"The first…" He stops, shaking his head and perching a fist at either hip. "I can't believe I'm doing this." After clearing his throat he begins again. "The first rule of hanging out with Beckett is: I do not talk about hanging out with Beckett."

Kate feels like she deserves an award for keeping a straight face. "Rule two?"

"It's the same stupid line," he returns, crossing his arms. "Oh, it's _very_ original, detective. Can you appreciate my resentment at having a woman use a guy's movie against me in such a purely nefarious manner?" He doesn't give her a chance to answer. "No. I do not believe you can."

"Say the second rule," Beckett commands patiently. "Or I'm going home." One corner of his mouth twitches and she narrows her eyes at him. "Alone," she stipulates.

At length he does, repeating the same lines from the first rule.

Beckett can hardly believe it. He must _really_ want to accompany her. Enough so that he's willing to bend that steely pride of his. It's sweet—too sweet. Her amusement is tempered by the lengths he seems prepared to go to on her behalf. This is different from sticking with her during a case; no one will suffer if he declines giving her the satisfaction. He must know she wouldn't have invited him only to rescind the offer over such a silly reason. _Right?_

Rick must have observed a change in her expression, because he lowers his crossed arms and asks, "What? That's rule two. I distinctly recall you saying it."

The detective collects herself quickly, pasting on a satisfied smile. "So I did. What about the others?"

"Rule three," he groans, "no behaving in a manner that calls undue attention to Beckett. Sub-section one: No unwittingly and-slash-or intentionally getting her name or picture in the newspaper. Sub-section two: getting tipsy and singing to her in public is inherently relative to sub-section one and rule three in its entirety." Castle pauses, arching his eyebrows. "Stop when me this starts to sound like the ranting of a mental patient."

He's doing a sublime job of distracting her from the gravity of her realization. "Oh, don't worry, I will."

The elevator dings to announce their arrival downstairs and the doors open. No one waits in the lobby beyond except for the Sergeant manning the front desk. It's after nine. Most of the upper floors cleared out hours ago. Outside, the temperature is unseasonably mild. A waxing crescent moon feeds them its Cheshire grin through the persistent haze of city lights.

Safely beyond the ears of others, Richard continues, "Rule four: I am to keep my hands to myself at all times unless otherwise invited, which…" He hesitates, grimacing.

"Go on," Beckett encourages with a small, irrepressible smile.

"…which is as likely to occur again as is my suddenly developing a working moral compass." He scowls and tugged fruitlessly at the locked passenger door of her sedan. "I don't see how insulting my character helps establish anything rule-related. What it tells _me_ is that you—

"Want _you_ to understand that this is a two-way street," she finishes neatly. "And that it's a privilege, not a right. The mayor can't grant you squat with me outside of that building, Castle." She'd nodded towards the precinct behind him, but the writer doesn't need to look to understand.

"But I already know that," he replies simply and with such quiet sincerity she pauses hunting for her keys to view him across the roof of her car. "I would've hoped by now that you would know better than to question my appreciation of that."

_Eek!_

"Who are you and what have you done with my partner?" she snarls. His tongue peeks between his teeth as he grins shamelessly, unable to keep the innocent victim charade going. "I knew it," Kate declares, and issues a relieved sigh as quietly as possible. She can handle Rick behaving like a child, but the caring and disarmingly sincere man behind the sarcasm and endless array of wit is downright unsettling when he makes an appearance. The dark-haired woman gestures with her free hand while unlocking the doors. "Rule five please."

When they're settled and buckled in the writer obliges, "Five: Kate's radio knob should be considered a part of her person at all times and is therefore off-limits." One eyebrow ticks upwards and he smirks over at her. "Actually, I like that one. It allows me to indirectly refer to your parts while at the same time you unwittingly admit that I'm capable of turning them on."

_Whoa. Ha. Good one. _Beckett sucks in a slow breath and turns the keys in the ignition. "I can't fool you," she drawls sarcastically, and flicks a dismissive eyebrow. "We'll, uh, amend that rule later. For now, finish it off with my personal favorite."

"Beckett, _please_," he whines.

"You've come all this way," she reasons. "You might as well finish what you started."

"Okay," he breathes and wrings his hands bracingly. "Just give me a minute."

Amused, but still nagged by the lengths she's coaxed him to—ludicrous lengths he's rising to meet—Beckett pulls away from the curb and starts their journey deeper into Manhattan.

"Rule Six: I shall not in any way reveal myself to be a back-seat driver. Oh gosh," he adds, wincing theatrically, "it hurts us, precious."

"It's nice to see a stronger side of you," she offers, grinning as they stop at a red light.

He grunts doubtfully at the validity of the offered compliment, then sits upright with a thought and asks, "Lanie doesn't know about these rules of yours, does she?"

Kate nibbles her lower lip thoughtfully, letting him stew.

"Beckett?"

"I'm thinking."

"Thinking?" he squawks. "About whether or not you've emasculated me to the amusement your best friend?"

"Yes, about that."

Her passenger digs into the pocket of his slacks and produces his cell. With nimble fingers he begins touching, swishing, and poking at the surface of his iPhone.

"Don't you dare call her, Castle. Esposito took her out tonight and you're not interrupting Lanie's well-earned downtime."

"I'm not calling her," he soothes. "I'm checking twitter. If she's going to unman me she'll do it there so everyone else knows how and when to strike at work on Monday."

"She uses facebook, not twitter," Kate replies, and could kick herself for doing so.

Sure enough, his eyebrows twitch with amusement. "Yes, and so do you."

"Rarely," she hedges, hopefully convincingly enough to be dissuading. _Keep dreamin', Katie._

After a bit more work with his fingers her partner reads aloud, "Kate Beckett unearthed a whole slew of vegetable seeds while tilling her farm and can't use them all. Click here to share the earthy wealth." Castle views her askance, smirks. "That was last night. I had no idea you possessed such a green thumb."

Gathering warmth threatens to infuse her cheeks with a crimson mantle. He isn't on her friend list, which means he must know the password of someone who is. "I have other fingers too. Guess which one I reserve just for you?"

"If you don't want to hear my comebacks," he warns while still focused on his phone, "you can't keep setting me up with these easy home-run lobs."

_Yikes._ The question of what rejoinder he might have in mind is too daunting to risk. She's actually grateful for his willingness to warn her off the topic. "We're here," Beckett informs instead, slowing as they wait for a break in traffic. She pulls a U-turn when the way is clear and parks along the street before their destination.

Nine Down is a squat, two-story affair. The style of the stonework exterior sets it apart from the buildings to either side, denoting its presence as a lasting one in a city that's constantly attempting to reinvent itself. Large front windows hold neon beer lights that paint the sidewalk in alternating reds, blues and yellows. A wooden sign hanging above the short staircase to front entrance possesses only an emblazoned 9-ball on its weathered surface.

"I've never been here," Rick observes, frowning.

"It's a big city."

"Mmm," he agrees wordlessly, and gets out, locking up behind himself.

They leave their coats in the car, trusting to the mildness of the evening. The author seems comfortable enough in jeans, a hunter green, vintage material t-shirt and… "Are those new?" she asks, gesturing to his footwear. They weren't cowboy boots, but along a similar vein.

"I'm not sure. I found them in the closet and went with them on a whim," he replies, still pecking at his phone. "What—you don't like them?"

"Is there a way to say that I do without making you preen like a peacock?" Her partner smirks and shakes his head in reply. _At least he's honest._ For that reason he earns a grudging, "Yeah, they suit you."

"Why thank you, detective. I'd return the compliment, but I'm not sure what I could add that years of 'leering' at you, as you choose to call it, haven't already made clear."

"I would take it as a compliment if you added nothing at all."

Rick doesn't smirk that time, but a roguish humor lingers in his features regardless as he slips away his cell and opens the door for her to precede him into the billiards hall.

The dimly lit interior is simple and straightforward. A centrally situated bar dominates the room, comprised of burnished oak. That rounded, rectangular fixture is populated with wood-backed, padded stools along almost the entirety of its circumference. Pool tables lined the room around it in a U-shaped pattern, each lit by an overhanging light. The air is layered with the scents of aged wood, beer, and vaguely of cigarette smoke. The billiard tables sit on carpeted mats, but the majority of the place is hardwood flooring. The walls are light green, sectioned every dozen feet or so by a ribcage of thick pillars. Small round tables on long steel stems border each pool table, each such placement bestowed with a rounded globe atop it in which a candle burns.

Less than a dozen other patrons are in residence, and none of them were under thirty years old. One of them is the actor Mickey Rourke. He's shooting pool with a striking blonde woman, which Kate can't help pointing out with a not-so-subtle nod of her head, fingers clawed into her partner's bicep as she grins with controlled delight. A few old timers sit at the bar, laughing with muted, scratchy voices amongst one another.

The man tending bar is leaning on it, conversing with the trio of older gentlemen. He stands as they approached, flipping a towel onto his right shoulder. It isn't precisely a cordial greeting he eventually graces them with; the barman eyes them evenly when they stop a few stools down from the others. He's heavy-set, but not overweight, like a sports player now past his prime. Closely shorn grey hair stands on his head with military attention. The hawkish countenance he bears is seasoned by sixty years.

"Evenin'," he rumbles. Gun-metal blue eyes shift from Castle to Beckett as he addresses the pair. Then they narrowed perceptibly. "Katie?"

The detective graces the man with a small, closed-lipped smile. "Louis," she greets, using the French pronunciation of the name. "Got a table free for old time's sake?"

Despite the inflection the bartender hasn't revealed an accent, French or otherwise. He stares silently for another beat and then stutters, "Ah—of course. I'll put you on table two."

"No," Kate replies immediately, with just enough gusto that Richard frowns beside of her. She doesn't acknowledge that, but instead asks Louis, "How about six?"

"As you wish," the big man replies with a somewhat strained smile. He goes to the other side of the bar for a moment and returns carrying a small, square, black tray with a dimpled bottom. A set of billiards balls is securely housed within the depressions. "It's on the house, _ma jolie_. No arguments."

Contesting the matter will only encourage questions from her partner, so she acquiesces with a bare nod and another small smile. "_Merci_, Louis."

"_Je t'en prie_."

The other men at the bar have been watching with undisguised interest, but the detective turns without further comment and gestures for her partner to follow. She leads the way to a corner billiards table, the farthest they can get from the bar or any other occupied spaces. After unloading the balls Beckett sets their tray down on the smaller, round table nearby.

"So," Castle says, crossing his arms and staring expectantly.

"So, let's start off with simple 8-ball. We'll race the table to see who breaks," she informs; meaning that they will each hit a ball down the table—whoever shoots closest to the far cushion without actually touching it has the honor of breaking. That's not what he's asking, and she knows it, but she'll put him off as best she can for as long as is feasible.

"What're the stakes?"

Kate frowns over at him while feeding the balls into the triangle and arranged them appropriately. "Stakes? We're here to unwind a little, Castle, not to gamble away your book royalties."

"Oh," he replies, breathing out a quiet chuckle. "Confident, are we? Good. Then you won't mind throwing something on the table after all."

"You can't just play for fun?"

"I'm already having fun," the novelist assures. "This is just to make things a little _more_ interesting."

Kate has already humbled him once tonight, but if wants to push the matter… "What'd you have in mind?"

"If I win a game, you answer a question. Honestly."

The detective tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before lifting the triangle free of the balls and setting it aside. "What kind of question?"

"The personal kind," he returns vaguely, arching one eyebrow and slowly smirking. "My favorite."

Beckett isn't surprised. Maybe part of her wants him to ask. _Why else bring him here of all places?_ "Fine," she agrees brusquely. "And when _I_ win a game, you owe me one hour of silence whenever I ask for it."

The writer balks, rubbing at his jaw.

His expression brings her smile out of its hiding place and pushes the memories just a little bit more towards the back of her mind. Her partner isn't a cure for her many ailments—just the best medicine she knows of. The detective walks to the wall where the cues are housed, pulling one free and sighting down its length critically. "If you can't handle the stakes, Rick, I'll have just as much fun playing for pride."

Predictably, his expression hardens stubbornly and he blurts, "You're on, detective. But you're not allowed to cash in your winnings tonight, provided you manage to glean any that is."

"Done."

When he's chosen a stick that suits him they step up to the table side-by-side. Kate rolled a pair of balls free from the formation and tosses one to her partner without warning. He catches it handily though and both lean over the table to line up their shots.

"On three?" he offers.

"Three," she answers, and with a light touch of her cue sends her ball across the table.

His follows moments afterwards and they watch as the orbs progressively halt. It's close. So much so they have to go to the other end of the table to judge who's victorious. Kate affects a bored expression and puts the pair of balls back into the formation.

"First blood," the writer declares, grinning.

"It's the last drop which measures a player's worth," she assures with just a hint of resentment.

"So competitive," he observes. "I like it. Victory wouldn't be nearly so sweet if I didn't know how bitter defeat would be for my opponent."

"Would you just shoot?"

"As you wish," he answers, still smirking, and his choice of words leave no room for doubt as to where his first question will be coming from. Not that there was much beforehand.


	4. Chapter 4

For the mystery-writer and part-time crime-solver, a game of pool is immeasurably relaxing. He spends so much time and energy swimming through wide seas of possibilities. Tonight a mere four-and-a-half by nine feet of green felt is the world he has to work with. In direct refutation to the confinement, it makes Rick feel adventurous.

The first few strikes are done by the book, sighting his shots like a sniper, seeking the best defensive position to bury his opponent in case he misses his goal, yet leaving an offensive route available in the event that each move proceeds according to plan.

When he sinks the 5-ball, however, the extra flourish of English he puts on it causes the cue ball to dance off of the rail and playfully nudges between two of Kate's targets with a soft clacking. Smiling, he leans in smoothly and snaps it near the bottom-right. It sinks his 2-Ball with a hard clack against the molded leather edge of the pocket, but the cue ball backpedals again to dance against the pair belonging to his partner.

Eagerly, he shifts around the table for a better angle. Beckett stands against the edge of the opposing side, watching. She isn't smiling or frowning, and voices no complaint as he runs the table.

The writer shoots again, driving his pale partner in crime into one railing and charging off in the opposite direction, coming back to crash into the 3-ball, dumping it into the side pocket from a forty-degree angle—no small feat. But the ivory hued sphere isn't finished. The extra top-spin had flipped its ferociousness switch, and with no regard for itself the pure, pale member of the billiard balls ran up into the top-left corner of the table to tag Kate's 15-ball, displacing it from a comfortable perch in front of the nearby corner pocket. There it lingers broodingly, ready for the next adventure.

It sits as far from the 8-ball as is possible to get—one corner from the other diagonally upon the table. Rick steps up, leans in, and feels that tuning fork thrumming within when his cue cracks against the ball, freeing it for another righteous charge. The sphere's momentum carries it to its target where it grazes the cushioned rail with a kiss, eases out to tap in the 8-ball, and speeds from railing to railing in a victorious lap around the table.

Kate grins and shakes her head, dark hair swaying alluringly upon her shoulders. "You can't take anything seriously," she notes, but sounds oddly relieved.

"That is not a fitting answer to any of the questions on my mind right now, detective."

"Oh?" his partner mocks, eyebrows rising like the wings of a bird in flight. "You want to know what I think of your maturity." She nods thoughtfully, adding unnecessarily, "My answer is: What maturity?

"Hmm," he considers aloud wordlessly, ignoring her.

She leans her cue against the table along with her right hip. "No. You want me to describe for you my response to those rugged good looks of yours." Again a nod and a musing silence follows. Her answer to the self-imposed query is to hold out her fist, make a thumbs-down gesture and poke out her tongue to accompany it with a brief, delightfully graceless "Thhhbbbbbpt!"

Goodness, he almost loses it. But Rick maintains the facade of diligent consideration. "Hmm."

"I don't speak cave-man, Castle. The fact that you do garners no surprise whatsoever."

Goaded past endurance, he finally grunts unintelligibly at her and waves her observations and unhelpful suggestions away brusquely. "Bad woman. You no helpful. Go 'way. Gather."

Beckett smirks, though successfully stifles it moments afterward. "Come on, already. Ask your question."

"I'm torn," the writer expresses with more realistic emotion. "I can't choose between going right for the throat with my inquiry or finding out what kind of underwear you have on."

The detective's autumn eyes are swept by a caught-off-guard blinking of her long, sable lashes. She should know better than to be surprised by his intrusive humor and is no doubt telling herself the same thing. "I'm not a fan of your choices," she agrees at length, though the novelist is pretty sure it isn't for the same reasons that inspired his indecision.

"The fun will just have to wait," he laments finally.

"I can't decide which way that means you're leaning now."

Rick cants his head towards the bar. "What was that all about?"

"You'll have to be more specific—

"Don't," he murmurs, making the word as much a supplication as a demand. "Please."

Beckett shifts and straightens her form, moving to the other side of the table to begin pulling billiard balls from the pockets. Rick steps over to assist while she gathers her thoughts.

"Louis Down is the owner," she quietly informs. "Has been for almost twenty years now." The detective lays the triangle in place and deposits the collected balls. At length she continued, "My father was a regular here for a long time. Sometimes Mom and I would come to visit for a little while too. This is where I learned to play."

Richard is silent, smiling faintly in encouragement.

"When things changed," she adds soberly— the writer winced at the sheer depths of understatement inherent to those three words— "Dad started coming for the drinks instead of the game. Table two was his regular spot. I lost count of the number of times I had to scoop him up off of the floor when he'd had too much to make it home on his own." Kate's hands have paused in their task. She looks at the arrangement of billiard balls sightlessly, and then up and over to the table referenced to. Those hazel orbs seem haunted by images from years prior, but no tears arise to accompany the ghosts of the distant past.

After clearing her throat Beckett goes on, "Louis was like an Uncle to me once. He always had a difficult time telling me no when I wanted something. The one time I needed him to say yes was when I asked him to cut my father off. Naturally, that's when he decided to say no."

"If he wasn't coming here it would have been somewhere else," Castle replies, nodding slightly with the probable logic her 'Uncle' had been facing at the time. "At least here he was familiar—people could look after him."

"Letting someone pickle themselves with alcohol isn't _looking after them_," Beckett growls. The eyes regarding him had narrowed into blades of hostility.

"No," he agrees evenly, nodding once. "But you can't force someone to un-shatter themselves and behave rationally again either. I'm not condoning the choice Louis made. I just don't know which one was the better decision under the circumstances."

Beckett pulls in a deep breath, pursing her lips as she quickly completes arranging their upcoming set. She eases the triangle off and places it on the round table with a hard clack. Her back is to him as she lingers there.

Louis appears among them bearing a tray on which two drinks are perched. "You seem to have a fan," he rumbles to the pair. "He insisted on buying a round for Nikki and Rook."

Beckett turns with her expression painfully neutral. "Who did?" She looks around even as Rick does the same. Across the way Mickey Rourke raises his glass to the pair in salute. The detective's lips ease open in surprise. Castle smiles and takes the drinks from the tray. "Thank you, Louis." He holds one out to his partner.

Kate grins like a little girl, but frowns just as abruptly afterward. "I'm—I'm driving," she protests with obvious disappointment.

"One drink won't upset the balance. We'll be here well past the point it's out of your system."

After a moment of further consideration she relents and they raised their shot glasses to the actor, who smiles and nods before turning back to his game. The whiskey burns welcomingly within the writer's chest, and his partner's expression seems equally agreeable to the brief distraction the drink provides.

"I'm not wrong," she insists quietly.

Rick pauses before her, arching one eyebrow slightly. "No," agrees. "But was Louis?"

"Maybe not," Beckett eventually answers. "But I can't bring myself to forgive him, Castle."

"Of all the evidence we collect in our investigations, the one thing we've unequivocally proven time after time is that life is cruelly brief. It's here and then it's ripped away." He grasps lightly at her elbow when the detective makes to turn away and she pauses, frowning at him. "I'm just saying, Kate. I'm not disagreeing. In your position I'd be just as conflicted."

"I'm not conflicted," she snaps, pulling away with contradictory gentleness.

Richard offers a small, melancholy smile as he lowers his arm to his side again. "Fibber." The writer knows she has a big heart. Bigger breaks harder, heals slower.

Beckett sighs, pushing a hand into her dark hair before presenting it between them in a forestalling gesture. "Let's just play the next game, okay?"

As quick as she's been to forgive his numerous foibles, Castle can only imagine the depths of betrayal it would take for her to hold a grudge. _But then_, he considers, _this is her father we're talking about here_. At length he answers simply, "It's your turn to break."


	5. Chapter 5

With a harsh _twang_ the tip of her stick scrapes off of the cue ball and sends it rolling uselessly several inches away. _Damn it__! Three times in one frigging game?_ She can hardly believe it.

Rick is so carefully neutral in the way he looks at her; it only furthers the embarrassment. "Shut up," the detective grouses. "Not a word, Castle."

"I didn't—

"You might as well have," she interrupts waspishly. A frustrated sigh worked its way out of her. "I'm telling you: I'm really good at this game. It's not a joke."

"Oh," he groans. "Please don't make me laugh right now, Beckett. I don't need that kind of trouble. I believe you. Stop reassuring us both that it's true. My self-control only goes so far."

"Just hush and shoot."

The novelist looks at the table and then back at her. His lower lip is drawn between his teeth in a clearly hesitating manner.

"What?" she growls.

"I, uh, need you to move," he mumbles, and quickly adds, "please."

"Oh."

When she backs off a ways her partner eases in apprehensively, leans over the table to line up his next shot. He only has one ball left to sink before making a run at the eight. The only reason he hasn't already won is because of all the traffic in his way. She hasn't made one successful shot.

Was it part of some kind of twisted scheme to have gotten her emotional before their next match? No. Even the writer wouldn't stoop that low. Besides which, he doesn't need that kind of edge. Castle would be giving her stiff competition even if she were at her best. Alas, she isn't. It's kinda humiliating.

Somehow, despite that, Beckett is enjoying watching him play. Her companion moves around the table with an easy confidence and handles the cue with admirable expertise. His draw and release is as smooth as an outgoing tide, back and forth with barely a hesitation to distinguish the movements from one another. The cue ball seems to glide rather than roll as it crosses the sea of green felt to kiss his 12-ball and send it along the rail into a corner pocket. The 8-ball waits with its perfect patience, snugly wedged behind the orange sphere of her 3-ball, a formidable barrier which seems likely to grant her one more chance at redemption from this debacle.

"One bank, eight-ball, right corner pocket," he declares evenly and shoots—just like that. He doesn't even pause to consider alternative options. It brings to mind, much to her chagrin, the delivery of a coup de grace. The cue ball strikes the cushion, bounces into the eight at an angle, and rolls on by as the black orb jumps out of its hiding place to plummet, along with her meager hopes, into the designated corner pocket.

Kate breathes out an admiring sigh, smiling faintly despite the blow to her pride.

"We can stop if you want," Rick offers casually.

He deserves to know, so she tells him, "No. Honestly, I like watching you play, Castle."

"Ah. You're starting to understand why I stare creepily while we're at work together. Your description," the author adds with mild amusement, "not mine." Beckett looks from the table to him. The smile curving the corners of his mouth seems guileless. In this brief time of open honesty the woman acknowledges that part of her _wants_ to believe the words he's dropped into her lap so simply—as if he'd commented on the weather.

So much goes unspoken between the two of them. That isn't always a bad thing. Words aren't as necessary with Rick. Compliments, apologies, even best wishes; these are not issues which often need to be audibly exchanged. All of that is inherently present between her and the writer at any given time—they simply know one another that well now. It's expressed with each subtle act of generosity or lingering gaze.

Tonight, however, Beckett finds she wants to hear the words. "What's your question?"

"What do you want to tell me?" he returns mildly.

"Are you serious, Castle? That is such a cop-out."

The writer stares with that vexing smirk and those damned piercing eyes of his, as though he could peel her apart by it alone. She wants to believe otherwise and at times that is surely the case. The detective is a well-guarded fortress of secrets by virtue of years perfecting the defenses. Yet she cannot deny that since their very first case he's showcased an unsettling knack for slipping between the cracks of her and discerning hidden truths.

"I—nothing," she grumbles now, crossing her arms beneath her breasts.

His gaze dips predictably south on her figure and then jerks back upwards a moment later with a guilty twitch of his eyebrows. _God men are easy—and the best part of the distraction is…_

"Uh," he utter lamely when she arches an eyebrow. But then he pauses, his expression lighting visibly with a thought. "Actually, there is something I have been meaning to ask you for a long time now. I've hesitated…I guess because I've been afraid of what the answer might be." _Drat._ Rick cuts short her celebration of goading him into asking a question by presenting her with a look of mounting trepidation. Kate feels nervousness rising in direct proportion to what he's broadcasting. "If you had to choose—who would you say has been the most influential author in your library?" He had barely completes the question before a hand shoots up. "Please don't say Patterson. Or Connelly. Cannell I'm willing to tolerate, but the other two…I don't think I could live with that knowledge. Just lie to me if either of them are the one."

Kate pushes out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding and could have happily beam her partner with the pool cue for worrying her. "I, uh—"

"No, don't lie. I'm sorry to be indecisive. Tell me the truth. I can handle it. I have to."

"You are such a girl," she accuses, grinning.

"I am not—hmm. No, in this instance I am. It's shameful, but true. So…lay it on me."

Once she gets past the amusement inspired by his dithering Beckett realizes the truth of her answer is impossible to share, one embarrassment too many for one night. She'll never hear the end of it. Letting Richard Castle in on the reality of what his writing has long meant to her is tantamount to running naked through a den of starving wolves with a necklace of raw steaks strung around her neck.

A somewhat daunting alternative presents itself, and though it isn't much better, it's preferable to what he's asking. Beckett arches her eyebrows and affects a teasing smirk. "Giving up so easily, hmm? I would have expected you to be going back to basics." Kate pointedly adjusts the strap of her bra beneath the knit white sweater she's wearing, the color and texture of which he'd mused about previously that evening. "You might not win again, Rick. Are you sure you want to waste a chance at finding out?"

Those clear December skies are purely intrusive now, almost as real to her as the invading touch of his hand might have been. Much to her dismay, the forcefulness of his attention is pulse-quickening, blush-inducing. The latter is not something which strikes her frequently, but at the moment a light shade of rose creeps into her cheeks. It bleeds down into her neck and chest. Kate unconsciously lays one hand against her cheek and moistens her lips.

Just as she's about to answer his question after all he offers a belated, "It's not for me to know." Blue eyes rise to lock with hers—she can't dismiss the way his pupils have fattened like ripe fruit from the seeds of his desires. A faint smile twitches to life at one corner of his mouth. "I've got a better question."

She dares a breath. Another. "Okay."

"What time is it?"

The unexpected note of laughter escaped her to the accompaniment of a terribly noticeable sigh of relief from the dispelled tension. "Quarter til eleven."

"Time to go home?"

"I haven't won a game yet. There's no way we're leaving until I do."

"I didn't bring any food or water," he notes absently. "Or even a change of clothes. How deplorably short-sighted do I look now?"

Kate narrows her eyes and replies, "Rack 'em, smart-ass."

"It's my break. You rack 'em."

"I'm armed."

"I also have two arms. You're not so special."

"I'm able."

"Everyone thought your brother killed you _long_ ago. This changes so much!"

"I'm—

"If you say 'willing' next, I may faint. Just a friendly heads-up."

Louis interrupted their repartee with his rumbling voice as he approached. "Hey, Katie. I'm sorry, _ma jolie_, but my neighbor just called. I've been looking in on him since his surgery last week and he could use some assistance. May I leave the key and have you hit the lights and lock the place up when you're done?"

"Oh. Uh, _oui_,_ bien sûr_, Louis. I think I remember where everything is."

Beckett can feel the writer's eyes on her. She has a good idea what he's thinking; wondering how often she'd sat here waiting for her father to sober up enough for the two of them to make it home. Part of her wishes she'd never mentioned any of that. The investigator loves her father deeply and didn't want Rick thinking poorly of him because of a monumentally difficult time in both their lives.

Louis' voice intrudes, grateful as he replies, "_Merci bien_." The big man lingers a moment, hesitant before telling her, "It is a gift to see you again. Be well."

Kate speaks past a rising tightness within her chest. "_Bonne nuit_, Louis. Take care of yourself."

The owner hands over a key ring with a faded, yellow plastic keychain attached. He nods to Rick and the writer offers a mute tip of his proud chin. They both watch Louis leave—the place is now empty but for them.

"Where's the music?" Rick wonders aloud.

Kate cants her head in the general location. The jukebox, more an item for show in a place like this though it functioned last she knew, is out of sight with the bar between them and it.

"Ah," the writer crows beyond her field of vision. "Well, shoot. It doesn't take anything bigger than a ten dollar bill!"

Kate rolls her eyes. How many people had to worry about having enough small bills on them? The writer sure has a way of putting the distance between their individual lives in perspective for her, unknowing though the act may be. "I think I have one in my purse."

"This is _my_ night to treat," he complains mildly while returning to her side.

"No it isn't. Don't think I didn't find the money you left in my car Tuesday night. Subtle you are not, writer-monkey."

He snorts, but grins. "Do you know why she calls me that?" he asks, referring to their medical examiner friend and colleague.

"Beyond the obvious comparisons you mean?"

"There's a somewhat notorious theorem floating around out there for expressing concepts dealing with randomness or complicated systems of probability. It varies depending on who you hear it from, but one example states: if an infinite number of monkeys type randomly on an infinite number typewriters, one of them stands a chance, however infinitesimal it may be, of reproducing Shakespeare's complete works word-for-word."

"Ouch," she murmurs, making the connection to him easily enough by that point.

"Just so," her partner agrees, jaw shifting with hidden amusement. "By the way, learning that bit of back-story will cost you ten dollars."

"Robbery," she mutters, rooting into her purse for her wallet.

"You'll have to take that up with Detective—

She arches her eyebrows even as he grinds to an abrupt halt. Castle looks just as surprised as her by the quip he'd been about to lay on her. They never actually discussed her break-up with Demming—not beyond the fact that it had occurred.

"My name is foot," Rick drawls casually, leaning against the pool table. "Have you seen a mouth around here, beautiful? We have a date with one another."

"Yeah," she smirks in reply, "I see a really big one, now that you mention it."

"That's what she—

"Castle, I'm giving you ten dollars to shut up. Earn it." She holds out the bill.

Richard mimes zipping his lips, snatches away the ten, and wanders back to the jukebox as she in turn faces the pool table. Damn. He got away without racking the next set after all. She isn't going to wait just to spite him. It is a weekend, but she doesn't want to still be here when Louis comes back to open the next day.

His voice drifts to her along with the sound of mashing buttons. "This selection is awesome."

Metallica's 'Unforgiven II' begins pumping through the speakers. Kate smiles and gathers the billiard balls into the triangle at the end of the table. By the time he wanders back over she's completed the task and garnered both of them a plastic cup of ice-water from the bar.

"Mmm," Rick hums by way of thanks.

"Don't mention it."

The writer gathers up his pool cue and suspiciously examines its length before shooting her a furtive look from underneath the shadow of his brow.

Gaping slightly at the implication she grouses, "I don't need to cheat to get what I want, Castle."

"My oh my. What to do with that choice of words?"

"Choke on them," she snaps. Curse him—he is _on fire_ tonight.

The man chuckles, a low and indecent sound that Beckett feels vibrating faintly in her chest. Without further teasing, however, Rick advances to the table and leans in, lining up for the break with a smooth practice draw of the pool cue in his large hands. If Kate happens to notice how that stance showcases his butt, it's solely the fault of random chance—those pesky monkeys and their typewriters again.

"You play," he declares. "I've seen your guitar."

Still fixated on the view, one eyebrow ticks upwards with approval. "Uh-huh," she confirms absently.

"Do you think I'll ever get a chance to hear you play?" The question was followed by the crashing of billiard balls as he sends them out in a wide spread.

The sound rattles her out of the staring bout. "Huh? St-stop asking me stuff. You haven't won. No freebies, Castle."

"Friendly conversation is out of the question until then?" It vexes her mildly that arrogance suits him so well. It's old news, yet it never seems to diminish in its ability to elicit a reaction from her.

The investigator pushes that detail aside for now, steps forward to survey the damage. Two balls are down—one solid and one stripe—still an open table. "On the contrary, I'd welcome it. You're not talking—you're digging. Anyway, I lost my guitar in the fire."

"You're a regular Jimi Hendrix," he says, shooting down the table, but misses his mark and scratches.

Kate hums briefly with quiet amusement—from the comparison more than him finally missing. She likes the dispersal of solid and lines up on one. "I don't perform in any case, Castle. Music is just a hobby."

"I understand. It's the same for me. But I'd still like to hear you jam."

When she turns to frown back at him his gaze is on her backside. _Oh this? Yeah, well, I do what I can. _For the briefest moment she finds herself wondering exactly what he's imagining. But then stands, more jerks upright. "Hello?"

"Uh? Oh. Hi." One hand rises and sooths the line of his jaw. Judging by the way his gaze jumps left and right she surmises he's furiously seeking a distracting comment to waylay her attention with. _Too slow._

"Keep your eyes on the game," she commands evenly.

He chuckles briefly, unexpectedly.

"The game on the billiards table, Castle." _Or start carrying singles. _Whoops. Slip of the brain.

"Better—specific is always better. Thank you."

Self-conscious now and rattled just as much by her own thoughts, Beckett can't dial in the way she had before. Her intended target goes wide of the pocket. She swears under her breath.

"Tsk, tsk. Language, Kate."

"Bite me," she sing-songs, drawing out the words a bit as she twirls away from the table and drifts along one side of it a short ways.

The Metallica song finishes and Rihanna's 'Don't stop the Music' comes on.

"Oh," she breathes, smiling. "Good choice, partner."

"Right?" The writer sways where he stands, rocking his hips before lowering and rushing a shot into their ongoing game, sinking another stripe. Winning isn't as important as it was minutes previously. This is nice all on its own, relaxing in the exact way she'd hoped it would be when she'd asked Richard to join her in the first place. Kate lays her hands on the edge of the table as Rick maneuvers around it for his next shot. Her body rocks in time to the music. When the writer passes behind her she bumps him with a playful nudge of her hip. He smiles and leans down next to her, sighting down his stick at the cue ball. Another nudge, but he's tough to distract. She swishes her dark hair with a turn of her head and dances a half circle around him to move to the head of the table.

_Crack_ goes the cue, and another stripe plummets.

Beckett's white knit sweater isn't long enough to shelter her midriff when she raises her arms as she dances. A smooth expanse of skin births a scrape off the cue ball, which rolls listlessly wide of anything it had been intended for. Sighing, Castle shrugs, flicking an eyebrow in the face of her grin and pursing his lips in a dutiful expression of acknowledgment to having been thrown off his game by her antics. But distracting him wasn't her intention, and she suspects he knows better.

Whether he did or not it doesn't stop her partner from manually, mockingly pulling up his t-shirt a little ways to expose his belly when Kate lines up for a shot of her own. Oh god—it's too funny and has her leaning against the table for a minute, laughing. She eventually makes her shot despite being breathless, and somehow even manages to leave herself in a good position for the next turn. The second shot works too, and the third; both send a solid into the depths. It's mere a side-note by now. A couple classic rock songs have them both singing along, sometimes individually, other times a duet. When a power-ballad from the eighties starts playing Kate covers her mouth and shakes her head at his eclectic choices.

"Perfect," she chirps, and they belt out a rendition that she's glad they don't have to share with a crowd—even if they don't sound half bad in her estimation.

"Whoo!" Rick cheers, raising his arms to an imaginary audience. "Good night, Central Park! We love you!"

Beckett laughs again and puts another ball down for the count in the lapse between songs. She doesn't even notice it was striped—one of his targets.

"Ugh," she groans, miming falling over sideways as the next tune fills the bar. "I love Billy Joel." Rick expresses his agreement by using the edge of the pool table as an imagined piano, banging away along with the music. They switch up the lines of 'We Didn't Start the Fire' and tag-team the chorus.

Soon enough no balls are left on the table. They can't recall it well enough to determine a winner, but it doesn't stop them from claiming ownership in a debate that lasts the whole ride to the writer's loft. They settle for a rare compromise outside of his building: Rick concedes the victory and Kate in turn overlooks the multiple infractions of her rules he's knowingly made over the course of their evening together.

Rick smirks, leaning down to observe her through the passenger window. "Enjoy the rest of your weekend, detective."

"And a quiet hour to start the week on Monday morning," she teases.

* * *

**A/N: The next bunch as promised. Hopefully they won't all take this long. I edited these three while writing some new additions involving a camping trip (it amuses me so far anyway), which I'd like to insert after the following chapter. Remember 6? The monstrous one? Can't wait to tackle that beast...oi..**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: So this bugger is _not _coming together quickly. Night People always was a story that found its own pace... Anyway, I don't wanna leave you guys hanging for too long, so I'm going to post the first few chapters now and hopefully get the rest done, or close to it, over the weekend.**

* * *

"Define 'camping'," Castle says dubiously. The author's iPhone hovers in his hands with both thumbs poised above it, but the game he was playing is paused as he stares at Ryan and Esposito. The pair is standing to one side of a murder board that has been blank for five consecutive days. "Are we talking about a woodsy condo with separate rooms and all the amenities of civilization?"

The two detectives share a look and Ryan furrows his brow, asks, "You've never been camping?"

Beckett's gaze lifts discreetly over her paperwork again, watching as her partner's expression flashes briefly with annoyance. "Don't be silly." But the gap afterwards expands into a handful of awkward seconds. "Of course not!" he adds belatedly, somewhat accusingly too, as if the other men were the strange ones for having enjoyed an iconic pastime. The woman's lips purse in a smirk while ducking behind the papers again.

"What?" Esposito grunts. "How's that even possible? Not once?"

"You've met my mother," Castle answers testily. "Does she strike you as the great outdoors type? We never did it when I was young." A whispered rustle of fabric suggests he shrugs. "By the time I could've done so on my own it wasn't something I thought about. Honestly, it is weird now that I consider the matter. You would think I'd have taken Alexis some point. I don't know. She's never asked to go. We're dyed-in-the-wool city-slickers."

"B-but that's absurd!" Ryan protests. Kate risks another peek to witness her colleague's wide, flabbergasted blue eyes. "You're almost half-a-century old for crying out loud." The writer's eyebrows soar, and then immediately plunge in offense. His accuser pauses, dithering briefly, but soldiers on, "I'm—I'm just saying: I can maybe see Alexis not having done it. But you? It's not like you've always been distracted by technology the way people are these days."

"It _was_ very different back then," Castle remarks by way of agreement. "People had manners."

Esposito chortles, unknowingly echoing Kate's internal quiver of humor. "Whatever," the former tosses out casually. "We're talking about the real deal here, bro: campfire, sleeping bags, tents—like that."

"S'mores, stars, crickets," Ryan lists supportively.

"Insects, body odor, tedium," Castle adds with a roll of his eyes, clearly unimpressed. Kate almost unleashes a lilting guffaw. The pair he's squaring off against just stares, gawking, and then at length frowning at one another. Ryan shrugs, evidently at a loss. When her gaze flicks to his partner Beckett finds the Latin detective staring back at her. She lifts the paperwork between them. _Me? Nope. I'm working—couldn't care less._

"Beckett's going," Javier observes. It's the way he says it: casually proffering her attendance as if dangling a pretty bauble before the author's covetous gaze. Her shoulders twinge.

"Are you?" Castle asks, surprised.

Their matriarch-of-sorts is prepared to ignore them, but his tone coaxes her into lowering the paperwork and frowning. "Yeah." She arches an eyebrow, saying without saying: _And what's wrong with that?_

"You. You're going camping," her partner says, and blinks.

"What about it?" Beckett asks, nonplussed by his disbelief. "I like it."

"I…I'm sorry. No. You're lying." He turns back to his game.

Gaping somewhat herself now, she snaps, "No, I'm not! Why would I lie about something like that? I've always enjoyed the outdoors. I just rarely have time to indulge."

"Turn your head to the side more, Pinocchio. I have no interest in being skewered like a shish kabob."

Beyond him the boys unfurl chuckling that halts abruptly to receive her narrow-eyed attention. "I'll have you know, I used to go all the time growing up. I still do for a few days every autumn at my Dad's."

"Exactly!" he grunts. "That's a cabin."

"Yeah, there's the house. But there're plenty of acres to wander too, and the lake. The point is I _do_ like camping, damn it, and I'm gonna have a helluva time this weekend. End of story."

"Sure, sure," Rick concedes indulgently without looking up. "I can see it now: you splitting firewood in three-inch heels, storing foraged nuts and berries in your Gucci clutch, and taking down big game with your Glock. Yes, ma'am, you're a regular Amazonian."

Beckett takes a moment to send another glare at her peers. If the reddened expressions there are any indication each man's self-control is eroding quickly. "Okay, you know what? You're going," she growls to Castle. "We'll just see which one of us comes—" she pauses at his sharp look, "uh—_g-goes_! We'll just see which one of goes crying back to the comforts of the city." _Phew. Nice save, Katie. Mostly._

"No way," he grumbles. "I can't leave on this short of notice. Some of us have very important matters to tend to. Alexis, um, stuff. Besides which, I've already professed my intentions, and they don't include squatting in bushes with rolls of toilet paper perched on nearby tree branches. In fact, you're not likely to get me anywhere on the map where I have less than three bars of wireless coverage. But you guys enjoy that. Send me a postcard."

"No post office where we're headed," Javier clarifies.

"It's straight-up wilderness," Ryan confirms.

Castle doesn't even look up from swishing his thumbs at his cell. "That sounds straight-up appalling."

"You already let it slip that the loft was empty for the weekend. You're here now, which means you don't have any other important obligations. You're going," Beckett repeats grimly.

Far from intimidated, the man seems confused instead as he looks up and around their group briefly. "How is it you're all able to get a weekend off like this anyway? It's been almost a week without a new case, sure, but that just increases the odds of a body dropping sometime soon."

"It's not just a camping trip," Esposito explains dryly, "which you would know already if you hadn't launched straight into a round of bitching." Rick faces Kate, scrunches his lips to one side in consideration and nods agreement, but there isn't an ounce of shame or remorse. "It's a training seminar too."

"Kind of unofficial though," Ryan hedges, "in that we go on our dime, and the days are logged as being personal time. I guess it's more like a club."

"It's not a friggin' club," Espo disagrees with a wrinkling of his nose.

Kate huffs impatiently and tells her partner, "Every year a group of guys from ESU head upstate to get weapons training from some of the instructors from West Point. It's not a club—it's usually different people every year. This thing started over three decades ago. A Lieutenant working here at the time served in the army with one of the top guys at the academy or something. Anyway, I guess you could call it a tradition. I got involved through Espo back when he was still in ESU, and Ryan joined us once our team came together."

Castle's eyebrows lift fractionally. "You go out into the woods and shoot stuff?"

"Well, uh, yeah, but obviously there's more to it. There's a secluded gulch up by Cedar Lakes where we set up camp. It's safe. The instructors are quite literally some of the best in the world. Last year Conrad Dressler was there." She says the words, but knows immediately afterwards that he probably won't recognize the name.

But he pretends he does, blue eyes widening with feigned pleasure and surprise. "Oh really? Why, it's been a dog's age since we met last. How is old Conrad?" Kate almost laughs. Again. And even though she doesn't her partner's self-satisfied smirk suggests he knows she's on the verge.

"He's a Gold Medalist in Olympic shooting," Kevin remarks touchily. "Show some respect, Castle. The guy flew here all the way from Germany to lend us his expertise."

Castle clears his throat and nods once. "Of course. Far be it for me to make fun of the few days a year in which you guys embrace your inner redneck." Yeah. The three detectives look at one another, but no one argues that point. _If the shoe fits… _"And what, pray tell, do you do with yourselves aside from shooting stuff?"

Another glance passes among the trio. Ryan starts, "We, uh…"

"Oh! I know! You drink beer," Castle guesses with a snap of his fingers. "And what—fart in the campfire?"

Ryan laughs, but quickly subdues and mantles with embarrassment when no one else does.

"There's no drinking, wise-ass," Esposito corrects. "There's no room for something like that. The whole region where we'll be camped out is State Park wilderness, very isolated. We have to bring everything we'll need in with us and take back whatever trash we produce, including the brass and slugs."

"Exactly how isolated are we talking?"

"We approach via the Cedar River using canoes," Beckett reveals evenly, shrugging one shoulder. "There're no roads to take in. They don't even allow powered vehicles. That's the point of the location. It's very secluded, so no one is bothered by the shooting."

"Except the poor critters."

"Uh, I guess so, yeah. There're plenty of those, lots of deer, but we see them there every year, so our visit doesn't seem to do any lasting harm to the ecosystem." She frowns, wondering now. "I mean I hope not. I'm embarrassed to admit this is the first time I've really stopped to consider that."

"They wouldn't let us do it if that was the case," Javier points out. "They have hunting season up there."

Castle's smile returns somewhat tempered, seeming regretful for getting her worried. "In any case, it's not so bad a trade for advanced training that could save lives."

"Exactly," Ryan agrees brusquely. "That's the whole point."

"Great. You still didn't answer my question though: what do you do aside from training?"

"Different things," Kate offers, looking to the other two for aid. "I usually bring a couple books."

"Fishing for me," Ryan inserts.

They look to Esposito, who shrugs. "I hike. Explore. Enjoy the quiet."

"See?" Castle poses conversationally. "That's great for you guys. I'm more of a, how to put this… I'm a people person. Branching off on my own? It's not really my bag. So… Postcards! I want postcards."

"There's no goddamn post—

"Then draw me a pretty picture," Castle interrupts mildly. "If there's time, of course," he adds, amusing himself it seems, "between those long stretches of thumb-twiddling. I'm happy to volunteer my services watering your guys' house plants while you're away."

Ryan leaned close to elbow Kate's left arm. "Don't you, uh, enjoy going swimming too?"

_Oh no you don't. I'll drag him into this kicking and screaming, but not like that!_

"Better not forget your bathing suit this time," Espo is quick to add. "Not that it stopped you last year."

Castle's eyebrows have ticked up near his hairline, but the man stubbornly declares, "I was born at night, gentlemen, but not last night. No. Both of my heads agree: we stay where we belong."

"Come five o' clock you better be ready. You're going," Kate assures him, crossing her arms imposingly. All that accomplishes though is to neatly bracket her chest, which he proceeds to stare at. _Yep. They're still here. Thanks for checking up on 'em though._ She snaps her fingers sharply, eliciting an abrupt jump of his startled eyes to her glaring ones.

But he doesn't look sorry, as if entirely unconscious of the deviation. "I'm not," he denies flatly.

"You know," Esposito says, turning some to square up to Beckett instead, "I bet Montgomery would really appreciate the opportunity this is for him."

"It's perfect for the purposes of his research," Ryan affirms with a devious grin. "Good call."

Beckett smiles widely. "Good one," she agrees. The three turn towards Castle, who shifts uneasily in his chair. "Cap's old school. How much do you wanna bet he'll say something about this trip building character?"


	7. Chapter 7

He's going.

_Crap. Holy crap on a crap cracker._

Captain Montgomery took all of ten seconds to jump onboard with his subordinates. Of course, he used somewhat better points to make his argument. Cooperation, even of the unofficial brand, between military and law enforcement is rare indeed, and Rick shouldn't waste the opportunity to perceive and appreciate their contrasts. And if he did waste it, well, that must mean he knows everything he needs to know about the NYPD and its workings, and no further 'research' is required of its processes or its detectives. _Cheap shot, Roy._ _What I appreciate_ _is electricity and plumbing._

The decisive argument, however, had been just between the two of them in which Roy pointed out that Castle has been finding himself in more than his fair share of hairy situations these days by following Beckett and her team. Dark eyes unusually piercing, he'd suggested, "Between the instructors from West Point and the guys from ESU you'll be among some of our country's finest and most experienced combat specialists, Rick. They can teach you things that might save your life." He'd nodded to Beckett's desk where she and the boys were talking. "Things that might even save one of their lives when push comes to shove."

Not only was that point impossible to argue, Castle found he no longer wanted to. Roy was right. He doesn't waste time second-guessing over for a convenient out. This is Beckett's scheme after all. That woman is like a pit bull when she gets her jaws around an idea. Somehow that includes cooping him up for a _four-and-a-half-hour _car ride to some deep woods backwater upstate. Bumsville, New York or some damned place. Okay, no. It's called Indian Lake. Fine. It's probably a lovely little town. A lovely backwater he has no desire to visit.

As much as Castle appreciates a good sulk, there wasn't time for that either. A two hour flurry of activity to find, purchase, or prepare suitable belongings for camping—according to a list of suggested items he'd found online—ended not five minutes ago, and Beckett was supposed to have arrived by then. It's 5:34 pm now. Apparently she's running a little behind.

_Little behind_, his brain reiterates. Alas, not even a good pun can dispel this dark cloud.

"Mr. Castle?"

He looks up with a forlorn sigh. _What now?_

It's only Eduardo though, and the doorman is a welcome sight. In his charcoal slacks, matching jacket, and a short, portly, reliably familiar form he's a shining beacon of the civilization that's soon to be left behind. While on duty, the mid-sixties man's repertoire of expressions seems to consist of polite concern and a jovial greeting. Right now he wears the former. Both bushy dark eyebrows are drawn together just enough to convey emotion without being overdramatic. Castle wonders, not unkindly, if there's a Doorman College. Eduardo could be its dean.

"Is everything okay?" the man asks. He leans over some as if seeking equal elevation. The author is sitting, shoulders dispiritedly slumped, upon the hardened edge of a single suitcase.

"No, old friend," Castle sighs, "it is most definitely not."

Eduardo blinks, rights himself as if good posture prompted clarity of thought. But he frowns lightly seconds later, evidently coming up dry despite the effort. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't think so," Castle replies, smiling faintly. "But thank you for your concern."

"Of course. Shall I call you a cab at least? I see you're planning a trip some—oh. You already have a ride."

Castle turns, bemused, and sees Beckett pulling up. She's driving his Mercedes hybrid, which he'd dropped off at the precinct earlier so she wouldn't have to load a cab and then transfer her belongings again upon reaching the loft. The doorman waves to her and she smiles, waving back. As his companion retreats back inside the novelist sees Kate studying him through the west-facing windshield. The sun is changing into burnt shades of eveningwear. Twilight is a heart-quickening event when it resides fully in her hazel eyes like this. Quivering lines of mirth border her mouth—those are less appealing for being at his expense. She coins the term 'bottled laughter'. At length the woman exits and approaches, pausing a couple feet in front of him.

"Good grief," the detective murmurs. "Could you look any less excited?" She sounds slightly exasperated, more amused, and it's all gilded with a note of fondness.

"Who me? I'm the very picture of barely contained anticipation."

"I would've suggested barely contained constipation."

"Well I suggest you need glasses," he rebuffs, arms crossing with admitted petulance. It's a double-edged retort: now he's picturing her in a pencil skirt and a matching blazer with nothing beneath it, long hair pulled back into a stern bun, black-rimmed glasses in place. Disapproving teacher fantasy—_No! No._ That's wonderful imagery, but he prefers to hold a grudge for a little longer.

Kate only quivers with more humor despite his waspishness. She looks different somehow—more so than simply a change from her usual attire, though that is also the case. Black, soft shell pants embrace her long legs, terminating over rugged looking, low-top hiking shoes. Her navy top is a slightly fitted long-sleeved shirt with a rounded neckline, some kind of performance material, but it's soft on her curves and easy on the eyes. The woman looks like she ought to be modeling for an L.L. Bean catalogue. Figuratively speaking too though, there's an odd sense of lightness about her, as if preparing to venture beyond the city limits has lifted a weight from her shoulders. Her smile is easy and relaxed. Then it hits him: Katherine Beckett isn't on duty.

"What's with the suitcase?" she asks. "I thought you said you had a backpack?"

"Uh," he says ingeniously and that's all. It's still going through his mind: _Beckett, off duty_.

"I'm not making fun. We can't fit a suitcase in the boats is all."

"No," he says, and clears his throat. "Right, sorry. No, I remembered your instructions. My pack is in here too. So are my sleeping bag, tent, and a change of clothes for when we get to Indian Lake. It's just easier to manage it all like so." He thumps the suitcase supporting him with his heel.

"This is just your prolonged car ride outfit then?" Kate poses, smirking subtly.

He's wearing fit, dark blue jeans, a navy slub-notch t-shirt, and a well-worn pair of black boat shoes; designer labels all, sure, but significantly less formal than is usual. Oh. _I guess you're seeing me off-duty too, Beckett_. He wonders if the image he conveys is as surprising as hers is to him. _Doubtful_.

"Are you all set then? I filled up on the way over, so I'm good to go if you are."

"I told you that wasn't necessary!" he protests. "It was barely a quarter of a tank when you took it."

"I know, right? I'll probably be eating Ramen for a month after footing _that_ bill. Poor little ol' me."

Huh. Off-duty Beckett is funny? There's a glint of edge in her posture too though from the suggestion that she can't pull her own weight, even financially speaking. Rick doesn't press the matter with further complaint. Instead he says, "I thought you were picking up Ryan and Esposito?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, they're not gonna make it."

"_What?_" It is not masculine to screech, but it's entirely warranted. They roped him into this.

"You called it," the detective replies, unsurprised by his outburst. "Almost anyway. _Two_ bodies dropped after you left. Karpowski has a team on one of them and the boys are doing the other."

"How come we're not staying?"

Beckett favors him with a look that seems equal parts impatience and sympathetic disgruntlement at being left out. "It was Roy's call, Castle, not mine. Anyway, it's more of a manhunt. The doer was witnessed in the act and now he's in the wind. The boys are staying behind to do oversee the manhunt and put in the usual legwork building a case for the DA. It's more clean-up than murder-solving."

"Are the ESU guys still going? Maybe we should just reschedule."

"Can't," his partner answers succinctly. "The army doesn't sit still any more than we do. This tradition is difficult enough to maintain even with predetermined days in the year allowing everyone to plan ahead. If we start screwing with that it'll never get done. Besides which: yes, the guys from ESU are already en route, or will be soon, and this is for them more than us, remember?"

The author huffs, but nods his understanding as he rises and lugs his suitcase to the trunk, which his partner opens for him with the key fob. Her belongings are already in there, two grey nylon bundles housing a tent and sleeping bag, and an army green rucksack that's clearly been around the block a time or two.

"Your pack has a dead head patch on it," he observes, nonplussed.

"It was my dad's."

"It doesn't look so old."

Beckett appears at his side, shrugging even as she comes into view. "Yeah, well, we of the Beckett clan take care of our toys. Come on, Castle, load up."

He does so, and lifts a hand in a wave of parting that's answered by one from Eduardo beyond the glass front door of his building. A soft grunt escapes him upon blindly colliding into Kate's back.

"Ah! Jeez. What're you doing?" the woman complains as she turns towards him.

"Me? What're _you_ doing?" He smirks and lifts an eyebrow. "It's my car, detective. I'm driving."

A mutinous look scales down onto her refined features, but the dark-haired woman just huffs and tosses the keys in the air without warning. Rick snatches them handily though, noticing the edge of a smile at her lips as she ventures around the front of the car.

_Off duty_, he thinks again, and withholds a boyish grin. _This should be interesting._


	8. Chapter 8

The drive isn't bad. It wouldn't be; they've made long road trips together before. At this point in their partnership even Castle is comfortable with the quiet that frequently settles and stretches out between them. It's a bit more lasting this time, of course, with no ongoing case to be the topic of conversation, but Kate looks so at ease in the passenger seat that the author can't find it within himself to mind. Darkness has swallowed the east whole and the highway is comprised of long stretches of isolation winding between isles of civilization. Other motorists only expound the sense of solitude, each cut off from the others within cages of steel and glass. What would be a terribly lonely drive feels more like being comfortably nestled inside of their own cozy hideaway. His passenger has the seat tilted back some, her dark hair a layered and silken curtain draped against it. The slight upward cant of her chin is an angle he can't recall seeing previously; her head at ease and reclining. In the muted glow from the instrument panel her alert eyes are obsidian pools bejeweled with reflected light.

Castle's iPhone is docked in the center console. A steady stream of classic rock has been playing, dialed low. Few of the songs were recorded after 1980, because yeah, that's how he rolls. There's plenty of good new stuff out there. He simply likes what he grew up with better. It doesn't hurt that Beckett knows almost every single one of them and reveals a penchant for singing along under her breath. By the tenth song in, and without a single comment from him to give her hesitation, his passenger is emboldened enough to turn the music up and sing along more audibly. She's really quite good, but that's no shock. That voice of hers—their trip to Nine Down revealed it as something that was built to be heard.

When Rick joins in on the chorus of Elton John's _Crocodile Rock_ she pauses in a blip of surprise, but then faces forward again with a light mantle of shyness and keeps right on going. He's not so bad himself if he stays within his vocal range, and reveals as much by belting out the notes unashamedly. It makes her grin and coaxes that voice of hers into its rich fullness. They rock that song and the next several.

Beckett perks up in her seat with curiosity when he takes an exit ramp off Highway 87. "Pit stop," he explains, and she nods in unspoken agreement. At two and a half hours they've passed the halfway mark of their journey. The gas gauge on the Mercedes has barely even twitched; the driver bypasses the pumps and parks in front of the Mobil station and convenience store. The only other occupant is a yellow Jeep Wrangler gassing up.

The occupants are inside as Rick and Kate enter. Five men are loitering at the counter, talking to the mid-fifties woman manning the register. She's laughing as the two new arrivals enter, but regards them with a beaming smile and a welcoming, "Hiya, folks."

Kate returns the greeting, eying the men briefly. "Restrooms?" she asks.

"On in the back there, honey," the clerk returns with a gesture towards the far corner of the store.

Castle follows after her, noting the gazes of the men tracking them. They're still present when he exits the men's room. The author, hardly a stranger to people-watching, casts the group surreptitious glances while gathering up a couple drinks and some snacks for him and his partner.

It's quite a crew.

Two of the men are monozygotic twins, both a looming six-and-half-feet in height and probably tipping the scale at around three hundred pounds. Snug fitting slacks and t-shirts lend an easy deduction of their builds. Castle doubts their body-fat percentage even qualifies for double-digits. The store feels smaller with them in it. Not handsome, but perhaps ruggedly appealing, their broad, exceedingly masculine features are equally stoic even as the others are laughing and chatting. But there's an odd sense of genteel in their easy posture and each early-thirties man's shamrock green eyes convey no hostility, merely alert awareness.

If that's not enough, the third man nearly dwarfs them by an additional six to eight inches. Powerfully built, with handsome, pallid features and long dark hair, that one is like night to the twins' day—coiled ferocity seems to bleed from him as though he were moments from a sudden outburst of dark and mindless violence. The woman behind the counter doesn't seem to be intimidated though. _That makes one of us_, he muses uneasily. Even as he's staring the giant's gaze shifts to him as though the writer's lingering attention pinged like a blip on his radar. The guy has deeply unsettling eyes. They're large and a vivid, liquid amber with riotous ripples of gold-gray around the pupils. _Wolf eyes_, his mind supplies.A passing glance just doesn't cut it. Castle stares for several long beats. That must be normal of new acquaintances, because the recipient doesn't appear discomfited. The unusual gaze sizes him up and then summarily departs, shifting back to his companions.

Fourth in their semi-circle around the counter is a blessedly normal-sized fellow around five-foot-ten and maybe a buck-ninety in weight. That's about the extent of normalcy though; he's strikingly handsome even from a profile perspective, with gas-flame blue eyes and closely-shorn hair so blonde it's almost white. The author isn't paying much heed to the words, but this is the one engaging the clerk, and there's an innate enthusiasm and genuine pleasure in his features as he does so. _A fellow people person. Right on._ The blonde man laughs at something the clerk says and his smile is almost alarmingly perfect.

Lastly, and central to the group's casual dispersal—their leader maybe?—is a six-three figure with golden brown skin of mixed racial heritage. There's an easy smile on his lips and casual friendliness apparent in his hawkish features. His eyes are also strange actually, as close to black as the human iris can get, with narrow bands of white circling both pupils; weird, yes, but friendlier than the giant's gaze. They meet Castle's orbs briefly and the man inclines his head in a nod of mute greeting, which the writer returns.

The assembly is dressed casually, jeans or khakis and t-shirts. One of them, he's surprised to notice, is wearing a black t-shirt with S.W.A.T. stenciled across the back in white letters—the blonde man. It had gone unnoticed upon entering as the front of the shirt is blank.

He twitches in surprise when Beckett appears at his side.

Beckett's lips twitch in an apologetic smile, but the expression alters to reveal a blip of amused curiosity. "These're our fellows I'd guess. What're you doing standing over here like a wallflower?"

"I," he begins, but pauses. He turns and peripherally notes Beckett doing the same. They're drawn by the sudden descent of silence. The five, and the clerk, are gazing at them from the nearby counter. Rick studies his partner, curious for her reaction as she in turn studies them. He can actually tell who she's looking at by the changes occurring there. There's a swift back-and-forth of her eyes while comparing the identical twins. Her head ticks back upon her neck and her gaze widens—that must be the seven-footer. A tip of her chin in wordless greeting comes next, which might be their leader. Then the woman blinks, her lips parting in surprise, and she narrows her eyes with a scowl. He suppresses a laugh, because the last has to be a reaction to the good-looking one.

Castle sneaks a peek and, yes, the blonde man is just finishing up what was likely a full-figured scouring. The subtlest of smiles touches the corners of the stranger's lips—purely roguish humor coupled with mild surprise, maybe even somewhat intrigued. _Anyone with a working set of eyes would be._

"You're Beckett," one of them says—the bronze-skinned one with ringed eyes. It's not a question, and it's neither friendly nor the opposite. It's just a level statement.

"That must make you Louis Avarant," Kate returns, crossing her arms guardedly. The man's eyebrows lift fractionally. "Esposito said you're the," she pauses as if seeking the proper word, "leader among your group here." Castle is somewhat vindicated by the confirmation of his initial suspicion.

"I'm a Sergeant," Louis confirms evenly, "but the term leader might be pushing it."

"Aw, Lou," the blonde man says with a brash step forward, "don't be so modest." With a swagger that Castle can almost _feel_ grating on his partner's nerves the man advances towards the two of them. A pale hand inserts itself into the air before the author. "Richard Castle," he surmises by way of greeting. "I'm a fan of your work."

Rick beams, glancing to Kate's irritated expression briefly before shifting his burden of items and returning to his new acquaintance with a clasp of their hands. The other's grip is firm and pumps a few times with good-natured enthusiasm. "And I of yours. What you guys do for the city," he clarifies to their seeming confusion.

"Trenton Shayman," the blonde man introduces, flashing that killer smile. He turns some in a move that places him neatly between the author and his muse to indicate around the group as he introduces them in turn. "Louis Avarant, as was just stated. And those strapping lads are Ultan and Eamon McLaughlin. The big one there," he adds with some amusement—because they're _all_ big—"is Talbert Goodman. He's the sweetheart."

"Go soak your head, Shayman," the wolf-eyed man snarls.

"See what I mean? All hugs and rainbows that one."

Castle quivers where he stands, not wanting to be rude and laugh, but damn it's tough. "A propitious time for a pit stop," he comments, leaning out some to sneak a glance at Kate. She looks dubious to say the least, and has edged away a couple paces from the man insinuated between them.

"Gentlmen," Trenton continues with an air of showmanship, "allow me to present Detective Katherine Beckett and her—" he pauses to glance at Castle.

"Partner," Kate inserts, more snaps.

"—partner, thank you. Partner _and_ renowned mystery-novelist, Richard Castle."

Castle beams and lifts a hand in a wave to the others. Going down the line of them from leader, twins, and giant, their reception is generally polite receptiveness, if unanimously silent; excluding the last that is—Talbert sniffs and looks pointedly away, unimpressed.

"Yeah," Trenton says, more subdued, but with indefatigable cheer, "these are the guys. A fun-loving bunch to the last." He grins over at Castle. "Oh well. I like your choice in road snacks. Cool Ranch Doritos—can't go wrong with a classic. I think I'll ride with you guys. Those knuckleheads are too much fun. Really. I have'ta pee again just thinking about another hilarious two hours on the road with 'em."

In unison the pair's eyes shift to their respective leaders. Kate's eyes are wide in alarm.

"Trent," Louis issues, a mild but clear rebuke.

"I know. You'll miss me. But we have to make sacrifices in the interests of, uh…" Shayman stalls, purses his lips, and looks to Castle.

"Inter-departmental cooperation?" the author supplies tentatively.

Trenton flashes the full length and bread of a grin. "Outstanding. Yes," he adds looking at Louis' stern and seeming strained features. "What he said."

_Yeesh. _Beckett looks ready to explode.

"They need you with them like they need holes in their fucking heads," Talbert growls.

"'Lo, the beast speaks," the blonde stage-whispers in awe, clutching his new friend's shoulder. Castle laughs. Even Kate seems to tremble on the verge of something. Maybe a smile, but it could be a mute snarl too.

"It's your call," Louis poses mildly, his ringed gaze focused on Beckett.

The fast-friends regard the detective together. She grimaces at them and shakes her head, sighing deeply.

Castle allows a little smirk. "That's a yes."

"Could be indigestion," Trent observes.

"Speaking of—we'll be needing more snacks. Come choose yours."

"Good man! What've we got? Oh, sweet! They have the yellow icing cupcakes."

Castle turns briefly only to see the other men have bolted out the door. Beckett is looking on forlornly as the Jeep Wrangler loads up and peels out with a hasty departure. It reads like a glaring message: _No take-backs!_

"You got coffee?" he hears Beckett ask the clerk despondently. "_Strong_ coffee?"

The woman, blinking, and then smiling kindly, gestures to the machine to the left of the entrance. "Have at it, sweetie. It's on the house."


	9. Chapter 9

Rick is adamant about remaining behind the wheel. That's fine. It's not like he gets the chance often when it's the two of them. _Or, you know, ever_. Kate takes the backseat though, not eager to be trapped up front while he and their new passenger jabber on. They've kept up a steady stream for the past twenty-some miles since the Mobil station, mostly the standard introductory questions. She's never seen the writer take to someone so quickly.

_Haven't you, Katie?_ Ahem. Well. Not lately.

Shayman seems equally enthusiastic, but she doesn't know if that's normal behavior or not. He's definitely like Castle, a people person as he'd described himself. They're a matched set—_the goofs_.

While she's trying to unsuccessfully nap across the backseat, the woman is struck by the differences the blonde man brings out in the other. Castle can be pretty silly, especially with her. That's no accident, of course. The man is intelligent, and worse, frighteningly cunning. He's so adept at random teasing and intentionally assuming opposing stances from her logic with his wild imagination; it's easy to lose track of the line distinguishing the role he plays for her and the man that exists behind it.

At present there's no line at all, only the confident social creature with a down-to-earth flavor of masculinity. It's him—minus all irreverence.

The alterations in play here are not so extreme as to make him seem like a new person. He's serious with her just often enough that she knows he's more than what is usually revealed. The reasoning behind the fractured personality though…sometimes it's downright vexing. Yeah, he wants her to have fun. And true, she enjoys the challenge he presents by his behavior, even when it's infuriating. Honestly, there's some appeal to not knowing whether he's playing or being serious—that is to say, being a seriously unserious person. The mystery would be intriguing to any woman, to say nothing of one who also happens to be a detective. Here's the tricky thing though: it's difficult to figure out where they stand with one another without having solid ground to stand on.

_Bah! Infuriating man._

"A daughter?" Trenton is saying. "I can buy that. You've got that air about you."

"A fatherly air?" Castle returns, sounding amused.

"More like a cautious one. Not as a general rule you understand. Take the way you reacted to Tal in the store though, which was justifiable. Is that guy a monster or what?"

"A monster's monster," the novelist confirms. "He's what the devil worries is under _his_ bed at night."

Shayman huffs a brief laugh. "Too right. Anyway, I saw your flash of concern."

"I sure did."

"But not for yourself, right?"

Castle hesitates for a second. "I'd say a healthy dose was on my behalf."

She peeks one eye open a crack, sees the passenger grinning as he faces the driver. _Phew. That smile. _"Alright, maybe some. But you have a kid. I imagine you must worry just as much about your welfare because of the ramifications it would mean for Alexis if something ever happened to you."

Beckett feels her breathing slow, halt. She doesn't even twitch, unwilling to risk missing the reply.

It's quiet when it finally comes seconds later. "It's always there." The detective's fingers curls against her chest, threading through tendrils of her hair, needing something to hold onto for a moment. Because absolutely she loves the way he loves his family. It's a detail that never fails to sneak through her guard and touch her heart.

"You could play it safer," Trenton observes evenly, not seeming to be judging. "I mean, following cops around isn't the safest thing in the world, you know?"

"Too right," Castle replies with some humor, borrowing his companion's jargon.

"So then why do it?"

There's a fresh spin on a familiar query. _Yeah. Why do you keep coming back, Rick?_

Quiet reigns for what feels like a mile or so. He clears his throat at length and finally says, "That's a, uh, complicated question. Why do _you_ do what you do?"

"Changing the subject?"

"I don't mind answering really. Reciprocation just happens to be equally interesting."

Shayman grunts and stews in brief consideration. "I believe everyone has a gift. Do you?"

"Yes, actually. I think if everyone had the means to be exposed to a greater variety of pursuits, whether academic, artistic, or athletic, we'd discover a lot more hidden potential in the world."

"Agreed. Well my gift is killing folk." The admission drops into the Mercedes like a goddamn wrecking ball crashing through the roof. Beckett is holding her breath again, this time without being conscious of it. The lack of a sidearm at her waist is an absence she feels keenly. Silence stretches on and on. Then the passenger adds, "I'm sorry—does my bluntness startle you?"

Castle clears his throat roughly. "I asked why you're a cop."

"I'm ESU," the other returns evenly. "That's not the same as your friends. I don't investigate. I engage. Within the NYPD, your colleagues are the scalpels, magnifying glasses, and jotted notes on a white board. I'm a sledgehammer, nothing more. Even before that I was…something similar. I've been through a lot of letters in service of my country, Richie. The order of them changes, but the role I play has always been the same."

"Goodness," Rick murmurs hollowly, unknowingly echoing her sentiments.

"It's nothing to get worked up about. It just is what it is."

"It's…sad."

Trenton shifts in his seat some, quiet at first. Then he continues, "Maybe so. There's nothing for it. We don't choose the gifts we're born with. Anyway, come on now. I showed you mine. Why do you do endanger yourself by working alongside the police on murders?"

Beckett hears the author stir and snaps the slit eye shut. Even then she can discern him leaning out to sneak a glance back at her; the shadow of his presence displaces the soft glow of the panel lights.

"What—her?" Trent asks. He doesn't sound surprised though.

"That's—no!" Rick protests haltingly.

A sudden internal plunge of emotion has the prone woman grasping her hair again and mentally kicking herself for being put-out by his tone of scandalized disagreement. _Jesus, Katie, you've got a boyfriend!_

"No?"

"I mean—yes!"

_Oh shit!_ Her hearts drums within her chest. She cannot be hearing this.

"Complicated," Trent reiterates with quiet mirth. "You weren't kidding."

"She's my muse," Castle says, and it kills her that he sounds proud _and _a little melancholy. "I can't explain it any better than that."

"Can't?"

"I won't." The woman in the back relaxes where she lay. There's a flicker of disappointment, but she aches with a complex mesh of feelings to note that her partner is unwilling to share her, even in the context of simple conversation. "I'm sorry to be hypocritical after you were so honest."

"Not at all," Trenton denies easily. "It obviously means a lot to you. I see that. You're an author, but some stories should belong to just you—or you and her."

The mystery-writer sounds relieved. "Thank you." Silence, then, "Did you call me _Richie_ earlier?

"Would you prefer Dick?"

Like Castle, the blonde man's humor, crude though it may in this case, offers a welcome distraction from the whispers of anxiety. Beckett doesn't laugh, or even smile, but it soothes the wrinkles their conversation has been eliciting.

"I—ha." A brief round of rumbling mirth ensues. "You're pretty funny."

"Looks aren't everything."

Castle chuckles again. "Rick is fine."

Beckett feels her smile return slowly to the surface and isn't sure anymore if the expression is inspired by their dialogue or hearing the driver enjoying himself. It's strange to think that this trip began as a challenge between the two of them—even a punishment of sorts. Already it's becoming…something else.

The conversation steers into less weighty realms as the drive goes on: music, movies, and places they've traveled to. Shayman is quite the vagabond, describing visits to places all over the world, and not all of them were sources of conflict where he put his unwholesome 'gift' to task. Both mens' voices ride a fine edge of depth she finds relaxing. Gradually, they lull her into a brief but restful slumber.

When Beckett wakes the Mercedes is stopped, dark. Utter silence indicates the absence of her companions. She rises into a sitting position with a yawn and rubs at her eyes. Bleariness disperses within the span of a couple blinks. The ass-end of the yellow Jeep wrangler is parked a short ways ahead. Turning some reveals both vehicles sitting off to one side along a gravel-strewn side-road that terminates in a dead-end fifty yards east. This is familiar territory. They're at Wakely Dam. _Heh, I woke up at Wakely, Castle._

Speak of the devil. She sees his familiar silhouette blot out the dimness beyond the windows facing the dam and river. He opens the driver's side door and leans into the sudden downpour of the dome light. "I thought I saw you moving."

"I'm up," she confirms with a self-conscious combing of fingers through her hair. "What time it is? Where is everyone?"

"It's about ten thirty. The others are setting up at a campsite. We have canoes!"

"Yeah?" she asks, smiling though she'd already known they would be coming.

"There was a guy here from a rental shop."

"Jacob Tanner," she surmises. "We use his outfit every year. You said 'was'. Did he already come and go?"

"Oh. Yeah, sorry. I would've woken you if I'd known you'd want to say hello."

"No, it's okay. We'll see him again downstream in a few days."

"It wasn't a total loss. He got to stare in the window at you sleeping for a while."

Kate's lips curve briefly at the obvious lie. "Don't be gross. Jacob's a nice man."

"I don't think he blinked once the entire time," Rick stage-whispers, and his jaw retreats in a classic expression saying: _creeepyyy_.

Beckett huffs, but her shoulders rock with a betraying, mute laugh. "Go away."

"What a grumpy girl," Rick observes. He snatches his iPhone from the center console and waggles it. "Are these guys messing with me? They said there'll be cell reception."

"It'll come and while we're on the water," she explains. "But we get a solid signal at camp." She tilts her head slightly. "Did you think we'd go out into the woods for live weapons training without a way of calling for help if something happened?"

"I don't know anything about this," he reminds her, bristling somewhat. "And I never intended to."

"Whoa, okay. Easy. Who's grumpy again?"

Castle sighs, his jaw shifting and flexing before he nods and seems to relax.

She frowns at the windshield and the jeep visible beyond it. "What's up? Are the guys giving you grief?"

The writer pulls a face and tilts away some. "Are you asking me to tattle, Beckett? Are you going to go beat them up for me?" A faint smirk manifests even as she grunts with annoyance. "No," he continues, "they're fine—an interesting group actually." She offers a wordless hum, accepting his estimation, but not sharing it so far. "I'm…out of my depth here. Okay? It's uncomfortable, that's all." Beckett studies him a moment longer and then gestures wordlessly in warning before exiting the rear driver's side door. Her partner closes up the other one, but stares through the window a moment longer. "Do you have everything?"

"You already got my gear?"

"Mmhmm."

She pats her pockets, feels the impression of her cell. "I'm good then." The detective frowns briefly at his car. It's a remote area with low traffic in both the pedestrian and automotive varieties. But it _is_ a Mercedes after all, which is hardly the best choice to leave unattended for days at a time.

Castle seems to deduce her concern, but only shrugs one shoulder. "I've got full coverage."

Beckett rolls her eyes. He could just as easily have said: _I can always buy another one_. It's true of course, but the blasé attitude speaks of childlike irresponsibleness. "I should've thought of this before we left the city," she grumbles. It's true, but then, Castle's being here at all was very last-minute.

"Jacob mentioned that the sheriff station sends a car by here a couple times a day."

"They do," she confirms. "Kind of a blue line courtesy."

"That means a 'cop thing'?"

Beckett nods, but finally turns with a sigh and leads the way ahead.

Everyone else is grouped on the small open field a short ways beyond the road. A waxing full moon provides ample light, but there are also two lanterns shedding sharp blue LED light. Tents are already erected. The ESU guys are apparently sharing an eight-person Big Woods—just the thing considering their proportions. Goodman counts as two people by himself. Rick's is a sleek King Pine 2-man with three different shades of green in broad stripes across its domed form. Her pale green Mountain Light also stands ready to receive. It's isolated somewhat on the opposing side of the clearing in an interesting show of respect for privacy.

"You put mine up too?"

"After a fashion," Castle answers with a rueful smirk back at her, but continues on while she lingers behind, staring.

Beckett continues after him, following as he enters the general swarm of bodies at the clearing's center. There's a permanent fire pit in place here, heavy stone slabs that comprise a ring about four-feet in diameter. The twins are stacking a smallish pyramid of sticks into place around a base of kindling. Several longer-lasting logs are piled nearby. They perform the task together fluidly, but without a word.

Goodman is sitting on one of the four thick logs surrounding the pit as makeshift seats. He's laying out an array of packaged goods for a light, late dinner.

Louis is just barely visible across the clearing, pacing while talking quietly into a cell.

Shayman and Castle are visible farther to her right. They're more apparent as shadowy outlines interrupting the moonlight reflecting off of the river's rippling and shifting surface. Several plain brown canoes are sitting bellies-up on the grass behind them. The former man is pointing towards the water's edge and murmuring something—probably talking about the trip ahead. They're near the tapered bank where they'll be launching from in the morning. A check of her cell reveals the hour: 10:20. They made good time on the drive up, which means she must have slept for at least another hour in the parking lot. _Ugh._ She was only out for a few hours, but that's going to make it difficult to sleep later.

Everyone is otherwise engaged.

There's a distinct feeling about this crew that she's only experienced with one or two members of groups she's made this trip with previously. It's a sense of her existing as a solitary entity. Oh these guys are probably capable of forming a cohesive unit necessary to function, but their dispersal during this bit of downtime is a quiet, perhaps even unwitting message. It's not a social occasion.

That's weird. She's doing okay in the looks department, more than okay if one believes some of the comments she's gotten in the past. Every single other time she's had to deal with at least one potential suitor. Yet not even an errant glance seems to be finding her among this bunch. Except Shayman, of course. Still. One out of five? Add in the detail of a communal tent and she'd normally be questioning sexual preferences. But there's no sense of intimacy or interest being broadcast among one another anymore than there is with her.

_Eunuchs then. I'm camping with eunuchs. Cool beans._

"Hey," Castle says eagerly as he appears at her right. Man oh man. Speaking of someone with sexual interest in her. _You and your damned timing! _Her partner stops short at her narrowed eyes, but hurries on with whatever brought him to her. "Are you and I going to share a boat?"

Beckett blinks, having to shift gears mentally. "Uh—

"Because I figured you'd have your own, which is silly, I know. I see there aren't enough now. But we're an odd number, and given the other guys' size I was thinking the three lightest people would be in one together."

Beckett huffs discreetly. "You want Shayman to go in ours too."

"That's cool, right? And it makes sense."

"Yeah, of course," she replies evenly. _Suitor indeed._ Ahem. It's good that he's not. _Right? Right._

"Did you just call me fat?" Talbert speaks up. That bass of his is almost tangible even at distance, and those eyes…they speak of looming danger.

"Ah." Castle's eyebrows rise along with both hands. "Um…" He taps his fingertips together amidst a moment of consideration. "Yes." Then he turns around and abruptly departs back the way he came. "She said we could!" he calls excitedly to Shayman.

Goodman purses his lips in a vague frown, but that's all. A guy like this—she's expecting to be bull-rushed and pummeled. He simply turns back to sorting the dry goods. No biggie apparently.

Damn. How the hell does her partner get away with stuff like that?

* * *

**A/N: So, again, the next batch as soon as I can manage it. Hope you enjoyed this addition even with some new(ish) faces thrown into the mix. The crew involved here has been part of my original writing for as long as I can remember. It wasn't feasible to have Ryan and Espo along for the trip too. That's just too many characters to write for smoothly.**


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